


Eat Your Heart Out, Robin Hood

by Firefawn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Violence, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 64,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22549630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firefawn/pseuds/Firefawn
Summary: Harry'd always had screwed up luck. So when he got dumped and dragged on a forced vacation, he really shouldn't have been too surprised when a Category 5 Hurricane leveled half the country. At least he got trapped in a growling shack with the girl of his dreams. Too bad he doesn't know her name, what she looks like, and is being forced to marry Daphne Greengrass instead. HP/DG
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Harry Potter
Comments: 31
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Eat Your Heart Out, Robin Hood**

* * *

**Chapter 1 ~ When Harry Met Sara**

"When it is all finished, you will discover that it was never random."

~ Unknown

* * *

_October 1999 ~ Somewhere in Honduras_

Ginny Weasley was a bitch.

If he just kept telling himself that, maybe he'd begin to believe it.

Yeah, just like he could fool himself into believing she'd dumped him, even though it'd been the other way around. Not that he'd been given much of a fucking choice. A trans-continental address change sent a pretty clear signal, after all.

On an unrelated note, being celibate was bad for his health.

The airborne piece of plywood that nearly took off his head just cemented that utterly depressing fact.

After all, he wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Ginny.

"Harry!" Ron bellowed into the deluge. "The next time you get dumped I'm picking the vacation spot!"

Harry glowered at him, slashing his wand and throwing an imperturbable barrier in front of himself just in time to avoid getting clubbed in the head by a crushed up can of Coke. "You're the one who dragged my ass out!" he snapped. "I was damn happy holed up in Grimmauld!"

"You were wallowing, Harry!" Hermione shouted, voice just a touch more shrill than normal. "It wasn't healthy!"

"What would you have preferred? Hexing half of Knockturn or copious drinking? Because really, Kingsley wasn't impressed with either!" And when Ginny had up and left him he had tried both. It'd been fun, right up until George, Bill and Kingsley had found him in a Knockturn Alley bar, slipped him one of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes famous sleeping pills that conveniently changed his ears to neon green, and then drug his unconscious ass back to Grimmauld.

He'd woken up looking like a house elf, and found the three of them there, along with Ron and Hermione, in full lecture mode.

Apparently Ginny leaving him to play Quidditch for the American league wasn't an excuse for single handedly taking on suspected Death Eaters while pissed on firewhiskey. Nevermind that Harry'd had the exact same offer and turned it down. Nevermind that he'd had a fucking ring in his dresser drawer at Grimmauld. Nevermind that he had been positive that she was the one.

 _The one_ didn't up and leave like she had.

There was a lesson to be learned in this: never trust a Weasley, unless their name was Ron. They slipped you joke items, stole your firewhiskey, and broke your heart.

Hermione's normally bushy hair dripped freely into her face. "Harry it's not your fault you don't have coping mechanisms! You never had any breathing room or affection in your younger years to help you develop-"

He snorted so derisively that, despite the hurricane, it still cut her off.

"You know what, mate," Ron threw in, far too casually for someone stepping over the decapitated head of a goat, "when Hermione suggested we go to the tropics she didn't mention the whole 'world could end' bit, did she? Reckon we got mislead!"

He scowled. "Wouldn't be the first time." First Ginny, now Hermione. Maybe he should put a general ban on trusting the female sex…

"True that," Ron agreed, thumping his chest in a brotherly sign of solidarity. It sent water splattering out from the sopping fabric covering it.

An exasperated, wet sound erupted off to Harry's right. "Ron does know I can hear him?"

Before Harry had the opportunity to respond through the wet torrent pummeling them, Ron's booming voice cut in, "I'm counting on it, luv! I just needed an impartial, third-party witness to confirm that this once in a decade event was actually happening!"

"Ron it's just a _storm-_ "

Through the black wall of rain something moved. A friggin' chicken plunged out of the air and unleashed an ear-splitting squawk, nearly taking off Harry's head, and judging from the flying feathers being torn out from the wind shear alone he doubted the chicken had suddenly learned to fly. Quidditch reflexes alone had him throw up his hands, snagging the furious bird barely an inch in front of his face, snaring the thing like it were a particularly large and lumpy quaffle. It hung upside down, and for a second they stared eye-to-eye. The two wet and disgruntled species looked at one another, Harry's black hair slung wetly in front of his spotted glasses and the rooster's comb hung comically downwards, sopping wet and dripping mud. Fuck, if Harry hadn't known better he'd say it looked startled. Then again a hurricane had launched it into the air with all the subtlety of a Slytherin trying to sabotage you before a Quidditch match.

At least Harry had just saved it from certain death.

It rewarded him by screeching and pecking his hand, Harry shouting and dropping it as blood welled up.

The thing scuttled chaotically through the mud, the ungrateful bastard leaving three-pronged footprints behind.

Just a storm his ass.

Hermione had continued undeterred by the sudden appearance from Fowl Peckery Airlines.

"-storms happen from time to time. This is hardly the first hurricane to hit the Americas."

Ron trudged forward, his wand slicing through the air and erecting a shield. Tiny bits of torn up and flying grass bounced off it. "That's not the event I was talking about," he said with deadly seriousness. "It's that for once in your life you were actually _wrong_ about something. That's monumental. Seriously, I need to mark this down on that calendar your mum bought us." He made a gesture like he was turning pages. "You know, that flippy one on the wall?"

Because Harry was standing directly alongside Hermione, he got to see one of her rare confused looks. Ron wasted no time vanishing it for her, sending his girlfriend an exasperated look. "You were wrong about this being a relaxing vacation spot, 'Mione." Ron paused, as if thinking about something very hard. Harry could practically see the wheels turn as his best mate stared at Hermione and frowned, before his face morphed into something horrified. "Bleeding hell, you don't think this is relaxing, do you? Know we were on the run last year and all but…"

Hermione stared at him, speechless, her mouth in a silent 'o.'

Harry snorted. "Don't think hiding from Voldemort twisted her sense of fun that badly mate."

Hermione found her voice. "What kind of twisted and perverse person would find this fun?"

Ron shrugged. "Well you suggested we come here, and then volunteered us for this." He said this far too casually for one baiting the cleverest – and therefore arguably the most dangerous – witch of her age.

Fortunately for his best mate she was also one of the most patient. "Perhaps if you'd given us time to check the weather report like I suggested-"

"Hey, when the Ministry offers you a free international portkey you take it. You don't piss around checking that Muggle telly thing and waiting for those one dimensional Muggles to talk at you."

"Well those one dimensional Muggles on the television could have warned you about this."

"Nope. We were screwed either way. Fate's pissed about Harry escaping death one too many times-"

"Hey!" Harry took offense to that.

Ron continued, "-which is why he keeps having rotten luck. Clearly it's extracting its revenge. Since he's primarily alive because of your interference-"

"I'd like to think I had something to do with it too," he heard himself mutter.

"-kismet's targeting you specifically-"

Hermione's eyes brightened. "Ron you've been using our word of the day calendar!" Fuck it all, but she sounded proud.

"-we're obviously destined to get blown out to sea, where we'll surely drown and our bodies will get eaten by sharks. No one'll ever find our remains."

Now she rolled her eyes. "Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?"

As if on cue a shack's door tore free from its rusted hinges, the wind catching and throwing it a good three meters before it slammed sloppily into the mud, right by their feet. The sludge sprayed up, covering all three of them in the muck.

Harry's glasses got coated. With a heavy sigh he spat mud out of his mouth and cast a spell to clear his lenses. As soon as he could see again he saw that Ron had stopped dead in his tracks to throw Hermione a smug look. Apparently that was more important than getting out of the deluge, and despite himself, despite everything going on, Harry choked on a laugh.

Hermione closely resembled a drowned rat at this point; her ordinarily busy hair had been flatted to either side of her face. Mud and pieces of grass stuck out of it, reminding Harry of a small creature's nest. "Alright fine," she admitted, having to shout to be heard. "I concede your point, Ronald! Next time I pick a vacation spot to distract Harry I'll let you choose."

Given that hejust so happened to be the 'Harry' in question, he felt compelled to defend what little dignity he had left and shot them both a foul look.

Hermione dismissed his indignation as if he were no more frightening than a cute little toddler.

He wasn't sure if that irritated him or not; he'd defeated friggin' Voldemort, set the record for youngest trainee to join the Auror corps, been hunting escaped Death Eaters for the past five months and she was still unimpressed. Well shit. He definitely needed to reassess the women in his life.

Then again, that was why they were here, wasn't it?

Beginning their trudge through the now ankle-deep mud that had once been a walking path, Harry took a second to take stock of their situation: they were in the middle of a rundown, extremely rural but thickly populated part of Honduras near the coast. The hurricane bearing down on the region wasn't even there in full force, but most of the houses – shacks was probably a better word – were already a complete loss. Tin roofs had caved in, old boards had been stripped from the side walls, and some of the structures had outright collapsed down to their non-existent foundations. According to Hermione's phone app wind speeds were already exceeding a hundred and thirty kilometers per hour, and were expected to exceed a two hundred and eighty by the time it was all said and done.

But hey, with any luck maybe they'd drown. There was also that whole 'sharks eating them' thing.

It'd all started when Ginny had gotten an owl.

Really, if Harry could turn back the clock, commandeer a Muggle shotgun, get creative with the liberal use of silencing charms and stalk outside the Burrow without anyone's notice he'd have happily shot the thing out of the sky before it delivered its missive. There was a small problem with that plan though – he'd personally ensured that all the timeturners had been broken. Nothing like your teenage self unnecessarily raiding the Department of Mysteries, falling right into Voldemort's trap, and getting your godfather killed to ensure that karma royally screwed over your future sex life.

Yeah, Harry wasn't even a little bit bitter over that. Not in the fucking least.

To make it worse, when he'd made the mistake of mentioning his grand 'find-a-timeturner-to-kill-the-owl' plan to Ron and Hermione in a drunken stupor a month and a half after he and Ginny split, they had taken that as proof he needed 'time to deal'.

They'd staged a freaking 'friendervention'.

That'd been forty eight hours ago. They'd shown up at Grimmauld Place and quite literally drug him to an international portkeying station, where he'd been 'not so nicely cajoled' into taking the ass-feathered end of a taxodermied duck that had proceeded to portkey them from London all the way to fucking Honduras.

Apparently the Central American Ministry of Magic – a union between Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Managua, Costa Rica, Nicaragua and Panama – was hosting an international symposium to discuss inter-Ministry cooperation in the wake of Europe's war, and Hermione had thought that sounded like a fun idea for a working vacation.

She'd justified it by claiming there was a beach.

Harry was fairly positive the storm surge had flooded that beach and washed it out to sea three hours ago.

But hey, at least they were technically on the clock and getting paid. Kingsley was a real fucking pal, he was. Seizing on the chance to flaunt that the 'Man-Who-Conquered' was from mother fucking _Surrey_ on the international stage _._ Nevermind that he, Ron and Hermione were still trainees with no seniority by any stretch of the imagination, they still got told to represent their entire country. He could see the promotional posters now: 'Way to go rest of the wizarding world! You may beat us in gross national product, progressiveness and foreign agendas, but the UK leads the way on production of mass murdering megalomaniacs and mentally scarred teenaged war heroes!'

If only that Ministry mandated squib psychologist could hear his thoughts now; they'd have a field day.

Wind slammed into them so hard it sent Hermione flying back into his chest. Harry grabbed her with a grunt and slipped and slid, nearly falling himself. He barely kept ahold of his far lighter friend. "Shit Hermione, eat some chips will ya?" he muttered, setting her back on her feet. "You'll get thrown around less."

"Shut up, Harry," Ron tossed back. "Fatten up your own bird if ya want, but leave mine outta it."

Hermione made a sputtering sound. "Excuse me but I don't think either of you have a say in my dietary preferences!"

Ron didn't miss a beat. "Can I use that excuse next time it's your turn to cook?"

Hermione let out an exasperated sounding breath. "It's not my fault your tastebuds are inelegant…"

"Inelegant? You tried to feed me kale!"

"Kale happens to be a super food, Ron-"

"So are pumpkin pastries."

Hermione hissed like one of Salazar Slytherin's pet snakes.

"Take it moving in together's going well?" Harry drawled, shoving her abruptly forward to get her moving and keeping a hand firmly planted against her back lest she fly into him again. "Should I start getting the domestic hex report prepared now or…?"

Both his friends ignored him.

"Come on Hermione, live a little," Ron encouraged, continuing what Harry suspected was a long running argument. "Eat something bad for a change."

"I'm not clogging up my arteries to appease your whims-"

"Please. You work for Mungos! A quick swish and flick and they're all cleared out. Better than what those Muggle nutters do. Heard they actually chop people's chests open. That actually true?"

"They're not nuts, Ron. They just can't magically unclog their blood vessels anytime they please. That requires surgery with major risks-"

Ron shot him a knowing look. "Like I said, nutters."

Harry gave serious thought to hexing them both, but repressed it. The entire time they had trudged slowly forward through the battering onslaught of rain, wind, and anything the latter managed to pick up and carry with it. In the past ten minutes since they'd left the Ministry he'd seen a chicken, a door, a lot of grass, a ramshackle mailbox, some wooden boards, a few pieces of plywood, and more trash than he could count fly past. Hell, until then Harry hadn't realized it was possibly to physically lean into thin air without magic without face planting, but it was; he was doing it now. The wind was literally holding him up.

At least he wasn't Hermione though. The wind was practically picking her up and driving her physically backwards, so he had that going for him.

He grit his teeth and shoved her through the mud, Hermione shouting, "I think it's getting worse out here!"

"Gee you think?" he tossed back.

She glowered. Harry smirked roughly. At this point the rain was flying literally sideways, each drop that struck him stinging his skin like a thrown pebble. Somehow he doubted this 'hurricane express' tour was in the Honduran vacation brochures.

"Shit this bloody well hurts!" Ron cursed from up ahead.

Harry snorted. "You mean this isn't that full body resort massage you lot promised? I mean I assumed a half-naked chick would be involved rather than raindrops from hell, but shit, beggers can't be choosers…"

Ron choked on a laugh, while Hermione made mildly traumatized sounds. Harry ignored them. The wind howled eerily in his ears, the sky nearly black despite the fact that it was mid-morning, and they still had a tenth of a kilometer to go.

See, apparently that whole International Ministry Symposium had been cancelled on account that a hurricane had been bearing down on Central America. It wasn't safe to meet, and the Ministry had sent out a notice that it was being rescheduled. Honduran officials had sent out notices to every nation's senior-most officials, but apparently the U.K.'s rep had been killed the preceding May at the Battle of Hogwarts, so their post was probably still sitting there in an unopened and unread pile collecting dust in some remote corner of the Ministry of Magic. And given how short staffed the Ministry was, no one had exactly checked the weather reports or made travel arrangements for them. They'd just given Hermione a 'galleon card' for expenses and sent them on their way with a merry wave.

That explained why they'd found a number of surprised Honduran officials when they'd appeared out of thin air in the middle of their packed atrium. And Harry did mean packed; a sea of panicked bodies had been shoulder-to-shoulder. The noise alone had exploded around them, Harry finding himself immediately assaulted by a barrage of Spanish and what Hermione had called "Misumalpan" sounding languages before getting jostled backwards into a literal grove of exotic palms growing right out of the floor. A carnivorous plant had also been growing in the trickling brook there, and it'd wasted no time in biting a chunk out of Harry's jeans before a Honduran official had rescued them from their display of local foliage.

As it turned out, the atrium had been repurposed into a hurricane shelter for the magical populace of Central America. Thus, the crowd. It'd taken awhile to figure out exactly what was going on, but they'd eventually been drug by a well-meaning but haggard looking witch in a bright orange poncho to the Minister.

The Minister of Magic, Enmanual Machado, had apologized for the commotion, the miscommunication, and proceeded to inform them that not only was their beach hut not ready, but they wouldn't be able to portkey out in time to miss the natural disaster bearing down on them like a rabid nundu. In fact, he had been amazed they'd arrived safely at all. Apparently the atmospheric disturbances caused by hurricanes messed with the magical ether and made it a lot more likely for wizards to fall into the void when apparating and portkeying.

Ron and him had stared at the man like he'd grown a second head; Hermione had fortunately understood every word.

The long and short of it was they were stuck there until Hurricane Mitch bid Honduras adieu, which was how they'd wound up recruited to go check on a local magical clinic that they'd lost contact with. The mediwizards and witches were supposed to have reported to the atrium six hours ago, with their inpatients, but they'd never shown. The Honduran officials were stretched to capacity as it was and had been unable to send a team out into the torrent to check.

So, in the spirit of international cooperation, Hermione had volunteered to help.

Then she'd volunteered him and Ron.

For some asininely suicidal reason he'd agreed.

Another chicken flew by, and Harry decided that he needed to reign in that whole 'saving people thing' he had going on. He needed fewer chickens in his life.

Abandoning the dilapidated shacks of the village they ducked out into an open field. Eight hours ago it had probably been a crop, but Harry would have been hard pressed to identify what. Perhaps corn? Rice? Long reeds had been bent down at sharp angles, muddy flows cutting violent paths across the field and flattening what remained. On the opposing side a building could be seen, it looking battered and abandoned, but a crooked and neon sign shone through the haze of rain, the words _Clinca de Santa Juliana_ blinking brilliantly.

Given that the power was out everywhere, it was magic. Obviously.

Hermione stared down at a beeping, blinking magical locator with a distinct frown. "The clinic should be right across here!" she shouted, head darting up and pointing towards it.

Harry snorted. "It's what I appreciate most about you, Hermione. Your obsessive need to state the un-obvious."

Ron plunged forward, sinking up to his ankles and swearing.

By the time they slogged through, their shoes getting sucked into the mud with each painstaking step, he and Ron having to yank Hermione out of it more than once, Harry had developed a deep and abiding hatred of pebbles in footwear. His boots were laced tight as hell, but somehow the mud had managed to help those sadistic little sharp pointed bastards infiltrate his socks. Given that the world was blowing down around them, he didn't exactly have time to stop and shake them out.

The second they stepped off the field and onto concrete Harry felt the shift in the air. It vibrated unnaturally, the anti-Muggle wards rippling around him with a strange shimmer in the rain.

He squinted at the entrance. Two palms flanked it, both bending a bit low for comfort. Either way, Harry didn't particularly give a shit. It was a building: one with four walls and a roof that would get them out of the punishing wind. There could be dragon pox in there and Harry'd still take it.

The doors were locked.

Alohomora didn't work.

Neither did Hermione's attempts.

At this point the storm had grown worse. Water slid across the concrete like a living organism, moving like a violent mist that battered their ankles and sprayed up into their faces.

A palm frond snapped off and smacked Ron in the face.

Harry sniggered.

"It must be pass-coded!" Hermione shouted above the roar the wind had turned into. She was ducked low, staring at the long metal door handles, hair whipping around her face as she pointed. "See the runes? Unless you know the spell to unlock each in the right sequence you can't break it!"

Ron and Harry took precisely three seconds to come to a decision.

"Let's blow it."

"I'm with you."

"Stand back, 'Mione."

Her head whipped up, eyes wide. Harry had already backed up to a safe distance, Ron bodily hauling Hermione and shoving her around the side of the building.

"Ron, you can't just blow it up!"

"Sure I can," he yelled back, sounding shockingly reasonable.

"There could be people in there!"

Fuck. She had a point. The doors didn't exactly have windows to peer though. Ron was already on it though, sonorous charming his throat and shouting through the doors, "OI! IF ANYONE IS INSIDE NOWS THE TIME TO ANNOUNCE YOURSELVES! OTHERWISE BACK UP FROM THE DOORS BECAUSE WERE COMING IN!"

He paused. Waited. Harry grit his teeth and grunted as a tin can smashed into the back of his calf with the strength of a bludger. He staggered and nearly went down.

Still nothing.

Ron nodded at the door. "Blow it, Harry."

He lifted his wand-

Across the lot something groaned, like a ship hulk straining against the sea. The noise ricocheted across the concrete lot, until a loud popping began. Bolts exploded off a sign and fired in random directions, pinging against cars and fracturing asphalt. The blinking sign they'd supported broke off with a _crack._

Creaking crashes were never good to hear in a windstorm, particularly one capable of picking shit up and launching it at your back. Really, Harry was rather attached to his spine, and he'd like to keep it exactly where it was at.

He jerked around in time to see the sign break free and drop. Just drop. It slammed violently down, only for its fall to be equally as violently halted. Wires had remained attached and it bounced in mid-air in stark defiance to gravity and logic before the wind snagged it. Now the thing swung like an off-track guillotine looking for Ann Boleyn's neck.

The metallic squeal as the wind battered it was like nails on a chalkboard.

Mercifully Hermione shot a silencing charm at it, right as Harry had clamped hands over his ears. He shot a grateful look over his shoulder at her, seeing that Ron had done the same.

Too bad the bastard coated universe with bastard filling decided to let the wires snap right then. He heard the loud pop, followed by the crashing splash of the sign falling to break against the ground. Glass shattered and metal clanged, small pieces clearly tumbling over the asphalt directly towards them.

But hey, at least it had waited until his back was good and turned so he wouldn't see the blows coming.

Harry might not have seen it, but he sure as hell felt it when a small chunk of fluorescent lighting flew past his ear.

With an oath he swore and threw himself down, another piece of sign whizzing past his ear. He physically heard the whoosh as it narrowly missed rearranging his gray matter, and he grabbed at the side of his head to make sure his ear was still intact. It was, though it was a bit slicker than he remembered it.

At least George wouldn't have to print him up a 'missing ears club' membership card quite yet.

When all the shrapnel had finished flying Harry pushed himself up, out of the water - the parking lot had flooded a few inches by that point – and winced as he saw several pieces of neon-painted metal impaled in the clinic wall.

They were conveniently all right next to Ron's head.

It had missed killing them both by centimeters.

Ron stared at them. "I bloody hate hurricanes, Harry!"

"Feelings mutual, mate!" he threw back, scowling and picturing his epitaph. 'Survived Voldemort; taken out by scrap metal.'

Well fuck that.

Hermione had run forward to check Ron, and Harry got to his feet. With a quick glance around the parking lot to make sure nothing else was going to become airborne in a misguided attempt to try to kill him – really, Riddle's from beyond-the-grave attempts were getting old – he deemed it safe-ish. Then Harry turned back to the doors, blocked out the seriously disturbing mothering Hermione was doing to Ron, and decided to screw it.

He stabbed his wand forwards like a common thug knifing a debutant dumb enough to take a back alley post premier of something 'uppity.'

"Bombarda!"

The blue spell lanced out, slamming into the doors. They dented inwards, but otherwise did nothing. Harry was actually surprised by that. "Nice wards," he muttered, stalking forward and flinging another, and then another.

Ron began swearing at him to 'bloody well _wait_ till he was out of the damn way!' but as usual Harry ignored him.

It was on his fourth hex that the doors finally exploded inwards, outwards, and in pretty much every direction except upwind.

And in the next several seconds Harry realized a few fairly vital things.

First, he needed to remember Kingsley's warnings about not putting all his power behind his spells. Not only did it drain him damn quick, but it tended to reduce whatever he was attacking into tiny bits that wouldn't stand a chance at holding up as 'evidence.' In the post Voldemort era the Wizengamot courts had gotten awfully picky about having it after all.

Second, given the narrow miss he'd just had at having his head removed, he really should have considered that tiny pieces of metal and wood could become airborne a lot easier than large ones. He'd obviously known that, but in his rush hadn't considered it before rendering the front doors of La Clinica de Santa Juliana to splinters.

Neither had Ron, obviously.

Judging from the hasty shielding spell that Hermione threw up, she had.

Which brought him to his final realization: if you were going to explode shit in a hurricane, you shouldn't stand downwind.

Hundreds of tiny, metal shards slammed into her shield mere centimeters in front of Ron's face, his friend frozen and staring wide eyed at them. Hermione was behind him, clutching onto the back of his coat, her wand whipped out and, as usual, saving their asses.

Problem was the deadly objects didn't fall; they just hovered there, vibrating against Hermione's shield charm, held up there by the hurricane-force winds like the sadistic, lung-puncturing sociopaths that they were. And judging from Hermione's fraught expression she was struggling to fight it.

Sometimes he forgot that she wasn't as magically powerful as he and Ron, at least not in terms of raw strength, even if her repertoire of spells far exceeded either of theirs.

With an oath Harry bolted forward, slashing his wand and vanishing nature's attempt to off his best friends from the gene pool. The mere thought brought several seriously disturbing visuals of the two trying to contribute to the aforementioned gene pool, and Harry soothed himself by promising to bathe his brain in acid at a later time.

For now he skidded to a stop in front of Ron and grabbed him by the shoulders, giving him a shake. "RON! Did any of it hit you?!"

His best mate stood very still, as if entirely unaware he was being shaken. Then he slowly lifted a hand up, looked at it as if surprised to see it there, then wiped the water off his face, blinking like a stunned animal.

It looked like he was in shock.

Harry felt a cold stone in his stomach. "Ron!" he snapped, giving him another shake. "Ron did you get _hit_!?" He felt panicked. Absolutely _panicked_. He didn't see any blood on him… "Hermione?" he asked desperately, but she had slumped against the building, drained from the exertion of keeping Ron's organs intact against that many would-be bullets.

Harry gave him another shake and began patting him down. "Ron, were you?"

This time Ron blinked at him through the swirling rain, and a peculiar grin crept on his face. "Dunno, if I was, you gonna keep shaking me, mate?"

Harry stared for a second, then choked on a laugh.

Hermione let out a shaken one.

Ron rubbed at his eyes, then patted himself down, straightening his clothes and failing in the wind, grumbling, "Shit…reckon you just got to second base on me, mate."

Harry snorted, but didn't wait any longer; being outside was clearly bad for their health. "Don't let Hermione hear you say that, she can still hex better than either of us." Fisting a grip in Ron's coat he shoved his best mate inside, that seeming to snap Hermione out of it. She followed without prompting, and in moments the three of them were inside the remains of the clinic.

The roar of the storm dropped a few decibels the moment they got inside the walls. Sure, rain followed them like a bad date that still had your floo-address, spraying into the hallway like a fine mist and rolling in to pool on the linoleum, but the wind had died down. Harry mentally downgraded the immediate danger from a rampaging Nundo to Crookshanks-when-Ron-had-stepped-on-the-thing's-tail-for-the-hundreth-time level. The storm had claws, could draw blood, but was unlikely to kill you with a single breath (or in this case, gust).

Harry figured it was an apt enough comparison

"Get away from the entrance," he muttered, stepping over one of the bludgeoned doors. "Shrapnel could still fly in."

Ron grunted agreement and gave an irritated jab at the gaping hole where the doors had once been, an invisible barrier rising like jelly. Harry was familiar with the spell. It wouldn't stop things from coming through, but it'd snare shit and slow it down. Faint gusts of wind could still breach it.

Better than nothing.

One such gust of wind snuck past, flapping Harry's coat, and now that the main danger had passed he took a second to orient himself. They stood in a long, poorly lit hallway. A half-dozen doors could be seen leading off it, some open and some not. A few gurneys and shelving units had been shoved up against the walls, hovering in shadows like ghostly sentinels. Papers rustled across the floor, and the ceiling leaked onto a disturbingly stained floor. An old, fluorescent light buzzed directly overhead, casting a strange yellow light across the otherwise pitch black hall.

Harry squinted. The damn thing just further blinded them, like a flashlight shone directly into your eyes on a night hike.

At least it was just the one. The rest all appeared to be filled with a dirty looking liquid, water sloshing around inside them. Ron noticed too, pointing his wand at one. "That can't be good. Thought eclectock and water didn't mix?"

"Electric," he corrected automatically.

"They probably short circuited from the leaks." Hermione slung her wet hair out of her face, squinting as well. "Must have been a Muggle building originally," she observed. "It's common practice for wizards to repurpose abandoned buildings in poorer areas like this one, rather than to waste time building their own. Less overhead cost, fewer supplies needed. St. Mungo's has a policy on the practice to help in the establishment of satellite clinics in third world areas. Honduras would certainly qualify. I read it last week on break at Mungos. It's Policy 311, On the Subject of Satellite Clinics in Underserved Areas. I'll bring you both a copy when we get back, because it looks like there's already a few violations of it." She paused, frowning. "Unless the leaking is just from the storm..."

Harry threw Ron a mildly amused look. "So, domesticated bliss hasn't driven the encyclopedic-like speech out of her I take it?"

Ron snorted. "I wish." He stepped forward, picking his way across the trash-strewn floor. "Keep hoping the mind-blowing sex will make her less interested in trying to educate my ass, but guess I'm failing there too. Woke up to _flash cards_ the other day. Woman claimed there would be a _quiz_."

Harry winced and tried not to gag at the image of librarian Hermione threatening Ron with punishment for getting a question wrong.

The fact that such an image had even entered his mind was a testament to the fact that he needed to get laid, severely.

Hermione made an exasperated sound. "And I keep hoping that vanquishing a prejudicial megalomaniac would have improved _both_ your literacy rates. Honestly, how many times did you both lament not knowing a particular spell when we needed it?"

Ron opened his mouth, but Harry shook his head damn quick. "There's no way you're winning this argument, mate."

Ron's mouth snapped shut, Harry choked on a laugh, and neither of them missed the triumphant smile teasing around Hermione's mouth. Harry reckoned they deserved that. Had it not been for her proficiency in warding their tent they probably would have been dead the first week.

"Don't we get any credit for passing the entry Auror exams?"

Hermione held two fingers up, indicating only a smidgeon.

Harry suppressed a snort and decided not to comment on the fact that Ron had barely passed. He hadn't fared much better. It made sense given they'd missed an entire year of the requisite NEWTs. But hell, the two of them were only in the Auror training program at all due to the severe losses suffered in the war and Kingsley having been a 'fifth of Jack' past desperate when he'd made the decision.

That reminded him what they were meant to be doing here in the first place.

Dripping wet he lifted his wand and cast, "Homenum Revelio!"

It happened immediately.

The spell shot out as a gust of air, no light, no spell-stream, but not ten meters in front of them it swooped low, lighting up with a bright green marker.

The area had been cloaked in shadows until then, but now – lit up as it was - Harry could clearly see a shadowy figure sitting on a gurney. One that had clearly been there the whole time, listening to every word they said.

Harry, Ron and Hermione's wands instantly snapped to them.

He was half-way through casting a body bind when the sound of a light laugh stopped him cold.

"You know for Aurors allegedly on a rescue mission," came an amused sounding, incredibly feminine voice, "you are awfully hex happy." The figure shifted, and Harry could now see that it was a willowy figure sitting cross legged. "Tell me, do you always hex victims or is it just a special occasion because I startled you?"

Given that all three of them had spent a year on the fucking run and had been within a hair's breath of hexing this girl, startled was one hell of an understatement. Their little trio had enough healthy paranoia to fuel a small town under post-apocalyptic, zombie-siege.

It went a long way towards their hex-first and ask questions later philosophy. But hey, at least he'd managed to stop himself, because the girl had a point: hexing someone you were trying to save wouldn't have gotten them any points with Kingsley, let alone the Honduran Ministry.

It was still incredibly fucking creepy that she had just sat there, observing them.

Harry recovered first. "You're a witch." It wasn't a question, and his voice came out harder than intended. "You've been there the whole time?"

The silhouette gave a careless shrug. "Well I certainly didn't ooze out of the walls. I'm not made of plasma."

He had yet to lower his wand, his grip remaining tense and sending the muscles in his forearm straining, but he heard Hermione's distinct snort.

Ron just frowned. "Plasma?"

"It's an ionized gas, Ron," Hermione answered immediately. "It typically has an equal number of positively and negatively charged particles so it moves differently." She frowned. "But not through solid walls. I'm afraid your physics is a bit rusty."

Rain continued to pound onto the roof, clanking against the clay shingles in a rhythmic fashion.

"Fair enough," she said, and something about the girl's voice had Harry hesitant to drop his guard. "My school hardly offered it as a subject. I just always assumed that was what ghosts were made of."

Hermione lowered her wand and appeared to be thinking.

Harry did not lower his. Instinct and over-the-top suspicion had kept him alive, and something about someone just _sitting_ there and listening to them bothered him. It bothered him a lot.

Ron, however, had more important things on his mind than suspicions or the four states of matter. "If you were here the whole time then why didn't you open the bloody door for us?" he sounded appalled.

Harry thought that was a very good question.

The willowy silhouette now sounded like she was hiding a smile. "You don't knock, don't ring the doorbell, don't send owl post…it's a big building. Hard to get to the door in time to be a gracious host when my first warning was a sonorous charmed wizard angrily threatening to blow off the hinges. Honestly, I didn't even have time to grab a platter of welcome crisps." The figure patted the gurney softly. "I got to about here before you lot started putting dents in that carefully constructed steel, so figured if I wanted my limbs to remain attached I should keep a healthy distance."

The green marker over the girl's head shifted, casting shimmering shadows across her skin. While her features remained difficult to see, the Kedavra-like glow reflected eerily off the brown hair hanging messily around the girl's face.

But Harry barely noticed her face.

Her shadowed eyes had glanced up, the green glow glinting off an aberrant blue and brown that Harry swore was a trick of the lighting.

Hell of it was, it wasn't going away.

"We didn't really have time for knocking," Ron said, drawing Harry's attention away from the girl's questionable eyes as he defended their breaking and entering technique.

The girl simply tilted her head towards the debris-strewn ground. "Well, aimless destruction or not, bravo on raw power. Really Red, if your casual remarks about sex weren't spot on indicators that the brunette there has already called dibs, I might just have had to buy you a drink."

Water continued to drip from the ceiling, but Harry failed to suppress a chuckle.

Ron, however, made a choking sound.

Hermione, no longer an insecure school girl, saw the humor in this and actually laughed. "He actually wasn't the one who blew down the door."

The girl abruptly uncurled her legs from beneath her, leaning forward with rapt interest. "You? Wow….well you know I don't usually swing that way, but maybe I should give you my Floo address just in case you and the Stammering Scott there don't work out?"

The prospect of lesbian propositioning was apparently too much for Ron, who made a dying sound. Harry, being the good friend he was, walked over and smacked him on the back. Hard.

Harry hadn't dropped his guard, but he did finally lower his wand. "He's English, actually," he told the silhouette. And by the sounds of her accent Harry would bet money that she was as well, but he kept that thought to himself, for now. "If you're keen to sway Hermione, you might be waiting awhile. They just moved in together. They're still in that sickening lovebird stage where they think each other's bad habits are cute."

Hermione sent him a withering look. "Leaving dirty socks on the bathroom floor is hardly endearing." Something wicked flashed in her eyes, and she turned to offer the figure a full on grin. "And sweet as that offer is, it wasn't me either. Though it was him, and he _is_ single."

And just like that Hermione tilted her head towards him, bringing him back into the conversation.

He seriously considered hexing her. Their attempts to get him laid since Ginny – or rather Ron's attempts – had apparently progressed from shameless to throwing him at complete strangers in dimly lit corridors during massive weather events. Really, this was a new fucking low.

It went a long way towards explaining the growl he sent her way. "How about we drop it-"

"Do we have to?" the girl asked lightly.

"-and get on with it?" His spell had long since come back to him, the only sign of life in the building the antagonist right in front of him. "Is it just you in here? Any house elves, or anything like that?" Homenum Revelio only went so far, and it didn't detect other species. The last thing he wanted was to leave a house elf in here alone and scared, abandoned by its humans, while the world went to hell around it.

Just the thought caused a painful internal cringe as he thought of Dobby.

The witch had apparently caught on to the change of mood and shook her head, all teasing dropped from her voice. "No, it's just me. I spelled the door shut and locked it so no one else could get in without me knowing about it." She dropped her legs off the side of the gurney and hopped down onto the floor, stepping out into the flickering fluorescent light. "You can see how well that worked." She sounded amused.

Harry wasn't. He found himself staring at a witch that was nearly his height, one with tangled dark brown hair hanging around her shoulders. Judging from the state of it, it was pretty clear she'd been outside in the storm, but unlike Hermione she hadn't had the sense to tie it back, and her features…

Harry's brow furrowed. In the shadows he hadn't been able to fully see her, but now…now he could.

Later, much later, when he finally sat down on his couch and allowed himself to think about it, when he would finally try to make sense of it and everything else that was about to transpire that day, he'd liken standing before her to a dream that he couldn't quite remember upon waking, no matter how hard he tried.

The blood pulsing through him quickened, something uneasy stirring within his stomach. She was familiar, yet unfamiliar, and he had no idea why.

That's what struck him as the yellow-tinged fluorescent light finally threw her into view, lending her and her plain features an unpleasant, jaundiced-like look as she stood not a meter in front of him.

She wasn't stunning or jaw-dropping. Hell, her features themselves were not even memorable. If he were honest about it they were decidedly unremarkable, the girl annoyingly plain.

Yet Harry stared. It wasn't the unplaced familiarity, or the mundaneness of her features. It wasn't even the strange lighting giving her an alien cast.

No.

It was her eyes.

Beneath a fringe of deep brown hair lay a set of bright blue eyes, the irises framed with a dark, nearly black circle. The contrast was striking.

But even that startling contrast wasn't why he was staring.

Harry stared at her eyes because something was wrong with them. A deep brown was bleeding into the blue of each iris. It was as if a third of each iris had been taken over by the brown, like the universe had taken two pairs of eyes – one blue and one deep brown – and smashed them together to create the uneven mix reflecting within hers. The blending colors were asymmetrical, not matching, and as Harry stood there he realized that even the bright blues didn't perfectly match; her left eye was a bright, pale blue, while the right was almost imperceptibly off, more aqua. It was barely noticeable, but there.

Two colors had blended to form each of her eyes, and the hell of it was he couldn't look away.

Harry stood there and quite literally stared.

She tilted her head, arching an eyebrow curiously. "You were saying something about leaving?"

Harry managed to snap himself out of it in time to hear Ron snorting, "Can't exactly hang the hell out here all day, can we? Not until we find everyone who was supposed to be here." His friend had clearly not noticed the witch's eyes, or had chosen not to mention it.

Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Hermione nodded, unearthing a magically charmed walkie-talkie and hitting the button. She rapidly began speaking into it, reporting back to the Ministry that they'd found one person in an otherwise empty station, the static crinkling of the station shockingly loud in the hallway.

The witch glanced towards Hermione, and Harry was grateful as hell. That got those bizarre eyes of hers to turn away and look at something else long enough for him to remember that he was an eighteen year old man, an Auror, a fucking war veteran, and that it took more to shock him into inaction than a nice set of eyes.

Or at least he hoped it did, otherwise he was going to get eaten alive by the general dating market whenever he dove back in. Or Kingsley when he found out how easily distracted he was. Either or, whichever came first.

Either way Harry remembered his Auror training and rule number one about assessing potential threats, so he gave the witch a quick once-over while she was distracted, assessing what type of threat she might be.

Too bad he honestly couldn't tell. The witch was wearing a literal black leather jacket and dark stained jeans – no wonder they hadn't seen her in the shadows.

While Hermione and Ron finished talking to the Hondurans with the commandeered and magicked Muggle technology - Mr. Weasley would have been drooling - Harry lifted a hand and waved it in front of the witch's face to draw her attention back. "Was anyone else with you? There were supposed to be a bunch of people in this clinic. Where'd they go?"

Her head snapped back to him, and one side of her mouth crooked up, her multi-colored eyes flitting between him and Hermione. "I sent them away. There's not a lot of time left and I didn't want to risk anything happening to them. Which is probably why all of you should be going." She tilted her head towards the blown off doorway rather pointedly.

 _Not a lot of time left_ …

He felt a cold prickling against his skin. "What do you mean," he ground out, "not a lot of time left?"

His voice had changed, and both Hermione and Ron reacted instantly. Hermione stopped relaying her message to the Honduran Ministry, the crackling of the walkie-talkie dying abruptly, and Harry could practically feel the tension radiating off of Ron.

The witch merely studied him. "It's a storm," she said calmly. "It's dangerous."

"It's dangerous everywhere," he countered.

He watched her wet her lips, as if thinking over her next statement very carefully. "This clinic is located in a particularly dangerous spot," she replied finally. "So I sent them away. They agreed, so they're safe. Unlike you three."

Harry didn't move, his brows knitting into a deep line over his eyes. "Sent them where?" he doggedly asked.

"To the Muggle clinic," she said, tone schooled into something he couldn't quite read.

The pace of water dripping from the ceiling picked up.

Hermione made an upset sound. "Please tell me you're joking."

Harry couldn't blame her. If this was a wizarding clinic that meant wizarding ailments, and mixing those with the general Muggle population opened up the door to all kinds of trouble.

The witch ignored their unease and shook her head. "No, I'm not. There's a Muggle clinic not too far from here, on the other side of the anti-Muggle barriers. They evacuated there." She paused, as if debating her next words. "I know it's practically taboo, mixing wizards with the anti-mags, but I'm sure the Statues of Secrecies will grant a concession given the circumstance. You three should follow suit. You could start the damage control early." Once more she nodded encouragingly towards the doorway, but her eyes lingered on him, and something about the way she did it, the way she had spoken, sent the hairs on the back of Harry's neck standing straight up.

His eyes hardened and he studied her shamelessly back.

Ron didn't bother with the subtle nuances of nonverbal language. He just spoke from his gut, like always. "You sent them out?" he blurted, incredulous and hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "You been outside recently? It's the bleeding apocalypse. Why in the bloody hell would you send sick people out there?"

Harry's mouth drew into a thin, firm line. He said nothing; he just quirked his own dark eyebrow at her in a pointed, silent question.

She was impervious to it. "Like I said, it's not safe here. But if you head out now and cut across the field South you'll hit it in about a kilometer." She spoke softly, determinedly. "It's behind a small hill that ought to protect it from most of the wind. The building has a big red cross on the outside of all four walls. You can't miss it."

"Yeah," said Ron slowly, in the sort of voice ordinarily reserved for mental patients, "because we should go out in a storm when a patronus charm will do."

The witch blinked, clearly surprised. Harry had a sneaking suspicion as to why: Ron was talking about one of the hardest spells in all of wizardry with the casual ease of a war veteran. He imagined that would shock some people into stunned silence.

It lasted only a moment. She adjusted the bag on her shoulder, telling, "Look, do what you want, but just don't stay here, alright? I'm sure the Muggle clinic could use your help."

Hermione reached out and grabbed Ron's sleeve. "Ron, we need to communicate with the people at that clinic. I don't…

And Harry didn't hear the rest.

She'd switched between the use of no-mags and Muggles.

She had a British accent, but the way she spoke…it reminded him of someone; he just couldn't put his finger on who.

Something about her was familiar.

Kingsley had patiently spent the past five months drilling what he called Auror 'instinct' into them. Right now those instincts were alive and well.

Behind him the hall lit up, glowing in dim blue light as a Jack Russell terrier and otter circled their casters. Ron and Hermione's voices spoke quickly and quietly, their patronus charms absorbing their messages and bolting out into the storm, presumably in search of the Muggle clinic full of wizards.

Hermione watched them go, worrying on her lower lip. "I hope no one sees them that shouldn't," she said.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Ron shook his head, his red hair strung out like a mop. He'd grown it a bit and looked uncannily like a younger version of Bill. "Well if they do we'll just obliviate them. It'll work out."

Despite their conversation Harry didn't move. He stayed right where he was, fixing the witch with the screwed up eyes with a look that promised infinite patience. He'd seen Kingsley use it in interrogations; it promised the prisoner that he had all the time in the world to sit and wait for them to tell him everything, so they might as well spare themselves some pain and just spill it all now.

And just like Kingsley had promised it worked.

The casual, relaxed demeanor of the witch vanished. "You really," she said, emphasizing the word, "need to go. Now."

"And why's that? I mean," he gestured with a hand at the hall, "you're here. Seems like a nice place to be so…"

And he waited, pointedly.

Her eyes grew about thirty degrees cooler. "Because, I have it on good authority that there's a slow-moving mudflow on its way here, and this place isn't going to be standing much longer." Overhead the light buzzed. "Unless of course you've somehow figured out a way to breathe underwater and dirt?" She arched a carefully sculpted eyebrow of her own, as if in challenge.

It took Harry a second to process that, the storm raging outside, the building actually giving a disturbing rattle from one of the gusts. "Depends," he finally settled on, "got any gillyweed on you? And if so does it work under mud or just water? Because really, if we don't know sounds like a great time for an experiment, doesn't it?"

The brunette stared at him, her lips opening and closing as if flabbergasted, before a laugh escaped. "You can't possibly be serious."

"Try me." He smiled grimly. "You sent everyone else away, so why exactly are you still here if that's really about to happen?" His eyes narrowed. "Because let me tell you, I can think of a few unsavory reasons someone might have stayed behind."

She let out a breath and almost growled. Then she spun on her heel, storming back to the gurney, where she promptly snatched up a satchel and waved it in his face. "Salvaging supplies. There's going to be a lot of people hurt by this thing and were going to need all the supplies we can get. It'd be a shame if they went to waste."

"Salvaging," Ron repeated with a frown. "You mean stealing."

She shot him an icy glare. "In a quarter of an hour this entire place will be under a wall of mud. It's not stealing. It's preventing it from going to waste."

Hermione, who had been observing the exchange quietly until then, shook her head. "That doesn't make sense. The city planner showed me the schematics of the area. The topography wouldn't direct a mudflow this way. We looked. He wouldn't have let us come out here if that or flash floods were a concern." She frowned. "Not to mention if one had already started, it would be here by now. How could you know _-_ "

The witch shouldered the satchel and cut her off. "Topography can change."

Hermione blinked. "Not that quickly."

The ceiling drip changed to a trickle.

The girl tilted her head to the side, as if sizing Hermione up. "Those schematics…did you happen to look at the survey date on it?"

Overhead the lights flickered, and to Harry's surprise Hermione actually frowned. "Well no, but they wouldn't be using something outda-"

Once more the girl cut her off. "It's third world down here. Hurricanes and flooding hit this area every year, and the Hondurans don't exactly have the funding for frequent, extensive surveys. I'm sure they showed you the best they had, but I highly doubt what you looked at was even remotely current."

To Harry's surprise Hermione appeared to be considering it.

Ron, however, wasn't. "So you're just assuming they're incompetent, is that it?"

The brunette shoved hair out of her face, looking frustrated. "No. But you do realize there's this big bad world full of _people_ out there, right? People that need help?Isn't that what you're supposed to be doing instead of arguing about whether or not the schematics you looked at are current?"

"If that's so then why aren't you helping too?" Harry asked edgily. Something was off. Something was definitely off.

"Valid question," Ron agreed.

Hermione remained silent, looking troubled.

The nameless witch's eyes flickered between all three of them. "Yes, you lot are _definitely_ Aurors. Only Aurors would waste time asking inconsequential questions when there was an immediate threat of death."

Hermione's mouth opened as if offended. "I'm not an Auror. I'm just filling in."

Both Harry and Ron's heads swiveled to look at her, Hermione shooting them a scathing look. "Oh honestly, you know what I mean."

The nameless witch's lips twitched. "But I don't. By all means, continue."

Hermione shot her a skeptical look, but answered anyway. "I'm hoping to be a Healer, if you must know. I of course have to wait for Hogwarts to reopen to take my NEWTs, but the Auror thing is only temporary until construction is finished and Hogwarts re-opens in the Spring."

"Hermione," Harry muttered out of the side of his mouth, "now's not really the time."

His best friend's mouth formed an 'O' of understanding, and before anything else could be said the ceiling came caving in.

Literally.

It started with a sharp crack directly overhead, and Harry's head shot up. That constant drip, drip, dripping, the water having slowly filled the non-working fluorescent lights, had increased to a steady stream of water and during the course of conversation no one had noticed.

That went a long way to explain why none of them had noticed the ceiling begin to bow in.

They sure as hell noticed when it finally buckled.

Harry grabbed the strange-eyed girl and all but tackled her to the ground. They slammed into the linoleum as the drywall ceiling caved in, smashing into the spot where they'd just been standing. Dust never had a chance to scatter, because a rushing torrent of water came with it.

As did a bunch of viciously hard and deadly projectiles.

Later on he'd find out they were shingles from the flat topped roof, but right then he didn't have time to think about them as anything other than 'more sharp things trying to kill him.'

The water blasted in. It was like someone draining a swimming pool right on top of them, and the gush of water slammed into Harry and the witch before he even had a chance to shout warning at Hermione and Ron. It tore his feet out from under him. They didn't stand a chance.

Needless to say the water picked them up and threw them down the hall. He shouted and grabbed at the witch, only for something hard and sharp to slam into his arm, and from the blazing pain that shot through his nerves clear down to his fingertips he knew it was broke. He instantly lost his grip on her, Harry choking on water as the world flipped him end-over-end, another hard shingle slamming into his back and eliciting a loud bellow that surely wasn't coming from him.

But it was, because getting hit in the back by a clay shingle was the equivalent of being beaten with a rock, and that really fucking hurt.

With a horrifying screech shelving units and gurneys were upended, thrown with them, Harry bashing into more than one on the way down.

He heard a scream from the side and he blindly reached out through the foaming water, instinctively grabbing at the nameless witch, feeling her hand grabbing back. Unfortunately she grabbed at his broken arm and he shouted, inhaling water for his troubles, and then a box filled with something – papers? – bashed into them, tearing away their hands.

He'd have shouted her name if he only knew what the hell it was.

The box smashed into his face.

The tumultuous transport ended when he slammed into the wall at the end of the corridor, the impact alone driving the wind from him. A half dozen bricks bashed into the drywall around his head, like small missiles, right before a gurney slammed a meter off to his right.

A half dozen alarms went off in his head, reminding him that every metal piece of furnishing was about to come barreling down on top of them, and he was really fucking certain they wouldn't survive that.

Reflex shot his hand up, Harry choking on thin air and dirty muck, the water forcing its way up his nose and into his mouth as he raggedly croaked, "Protego!" The blue light flashed through mud and water and debris, just in time for several hundred pounds of shelving and gurneys to slam into it. The impact ricocheted through his magic and straight up his forearm, smashing him back against the wall with even more painful force, like the insignificant human he was. Shielding charms might be magic but the caster always paid a price, and just when he thought he'd die the water pressure let up.

With a final whoosh the rush of abusive water pouring in stopped; the gurneys, shelfing units and pieces of roof all fell to the ground with an ear shattering slam, collapsing in a sadistic, jenga-like pile stacked to the roof.

The primo rooftop swimming pool had drained to leave the entire hall drenched in several centimeters of water. The rest of the fluid had spread out, seeping beneath doorways into the adjoining rooms. A good thing too, otherwise they might have all drowned.

He slumped there and coughed, groaning. His head spun, and it occurred to him that he must have hit it against the wall when the bastard edifice saw fit to bring his free water ride to an unceremonious halt. Blood trickled down his face from several places, Harry tasting it on a split lip. Every muscle and joint and bone throbbed, and a strange pressure pressed down on his legs.

He managed to pry his eyes open with considerable effort, his hair slung into them. Sprawled over his legs lay the witch, splayed out like a dying fish out of water, and she too was coughing and choking. His vision didn't seem to be working right, everything blurred, but he could see enough to tell that every inch of the witch's clothing was stuck wetly to her, leaving nothing to the imagination, and in his recently concussed state Harry kicked himself for even fucking noticing that.

His head throbbed three times in a row, his gaze dotted black. Then again, maybe those weren't spots. Maybe he was just seeing shadows. It was dark. Their only pathetic light was the dim, jaundice-like fluorescence being cast clear from the opposite end of the hall, which was now blocked by a towering pile of unstable furniture. Tiny shafts trickled in through twisted metal, but they were mostly in the dark.

The girl on his legs moved.

With a groan he did too. His arm screamed, but he managed to fumble for his wand, a stab of relief shooting through his core when he found it. He hadn't lost it. Casting a quick _lumos,_ he assessed the actual damage.

The first thing he noticed was his left arm. It was shaped…well he didn't know what shape to call it, but he knew it wasn't one found in nature. With a groan, the blinding pain still making him see spots, he shot a look towards the witch to make sure she hadn't drowned when she'd rolled off him. She hadn't. In fact, she'd rolled over, affording him one hell of a view of her torn and unzipped jacket. In the tumult it'd somehow wound up tugged halfway down her front, the black leather falling open to reveal a torn up blue shirt and a soaked white slip of fabric that the more intelligent part of his mind identified as a bra around seriously nicely shaped mounds.

And in that second Harry realized that her face might be plain, but shit she was nicely shaped.

Nothing like a bit of heart break, a vacation from hell, excruciating pain, a beating from mother nature herself, and a long bout of celibacy to inspire his male mind to all new lewd heights at the most inappropriate times.

On the upside, at least Ginny hadn't broken his libido when she'd left. He was happy to report that it still was in fine working order. In fact, he might need a damn sedative given it clearly didn't understand things like 'timing'. Shit, his old dormmates would be proud.

His inner-Hermione that seven years of verbal tongue lashings had implanted inside his head gave him a good, swift kick in the nads to refocus his attention.

He shoved himself gingerly off the wall and absolutely did not make any un-masculine, screaming like sounds as his broken arm shifted. No. He simply grunted, "You alright?" at the witch and her cleavage, which most definitely hadn't been showing before water had forcefully shoved its way down her jacket. He would have noticed.

The witch lay flat on her back, chest heaving up and down as she caught her breath, but she managed a weak thumb's up.

He sucked in a breath, contemplated moving, then decided against it in favor of collapsing back against the wall and clutching his arm. "Fuck."

At that her eyes cracked – those spectacular fucking bizarre eyes - and in his dim wand light he saw them spin with confusion, then widen in alarm. "You're hurt…" It sounded like she had tried to exclaim it, but it came out quiet and raspy.

He snorted with the derision of a man well accustomed to the universe taking a piss on him. "Well spotted," he croaked. "What gave it away? My new S shaped forearm or the giddy expression on my face?"

The girl sloshed in the water, somehow getting to her knees, but Harry missed how she executed that feat. A pity. He could have used a tip or five on how to regain use of his muscles. What he didn't miss was how she suddenly had her wand out and pointed directly at him.

Before he'd even registered what he was doing he'd dropped his own wand, the light extinguishing as it fell in the water, his hand shooting out lightning fast. He had her forearm snared in an iron grip before either of them could so much as blink, and in a single, violent move Harry'd twisted it so her wand was aimed anywhere but at him. His fingers tightened ruthlessly into the underside of her wrist, his gaze darkening to damn near black.

She whimpered, and he heard it. Through gritted teeth he haltingly ground, "What…the fuck…are you doing?"

Pain billowed up in his injured arm, it so bad he could physically hear his pulse in his ears, but adrenaline kept him awake.

She stared at him for a second, as if not believing what she was seeing.

Then she hissed like the angry and recently drowned cat she resembled, annoyance flashing in her eyes. Later on, down the line, he'd give her a lot of credit for what she did next.

She called him an asshole.

Then she opened her mouth, her annoyed gaze dead steady. "I'm a Healer," she said slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dense child, "and you're not going to get anywhere safely like that." She put emphasis on that final syllable.

Despite the bone deep pain throbbing through him, he managed a cringe, eyes narrowing at her skeptically. She didn't look any older than him. At least her face certainly didn't, his mouth speaking before his brain could catch up. "Ah, right," he grunted. "You forgot your Healer sign." He paused as his nerves reminded him of their presence, groaning, "How good are you, exactly?"

He completely and utterly failed to keep the skepticism out of his voice, which got him called an asshole again.

"Given I'm the only one you've got," she asked shortly, arching a skeptical eyebrow, "does that really matter?"

Despite the situation he snorted. "Fair enough," he replied. Still he didn't let go of her wrist, her water-slickened skin strangely warm and soft beneath his fingers, her pulse steadily beating beneath. Harry wasn't the best at putting trust in people, particularly ones he'd just met, and like hell would he let them aim wands at him under ordinary circumstances. Then again these were hardly ordinary, and he felt his stomach twist as he tried to decide what the hell to do when his head and arm and dick were all pounding, all demanding equal amounts of attention as he and this girl and her barely covered breasts stared at each another in a silent battle of wills.

One she won, for obvious reasons.

Fuck this girl seriously needed to pull her shirt up.

Harry closed his eyes and released her wrist, solving at least one of his problems. "Alright," he grunted, acceding. Reaching down into the cold water he fumbled for his wand, muttering, "You take off my arm though, I'm reserving the right to hex yours. Just saying."

And despite that her lips actually twitched into a mirthless smile.

It took her two or three minutes, the witch's face contorted with deadly seriousness – Harry strongly suspected she wasn't quite comfortable with what she was doing - but eventually his arm had been snapped back into place and in her words, 'lightly mended, but don't try to punch in any doors'. And hell, she was even polite enough to pretend he hadn't screamed.

Once the pain died down he registered the loud sound of rain slamming down and the seriously loud roar of the wind. The new skylight in the clinic ceiling was letting all of ole Mitch's furious sounds in on surround sound. Ron and Hermione's shouts had almost been lost in the noise, and Harry peered blearily past the Healer-witch towards the sound, another hasty _lumos_ revealing the problem.

A substantial, towering pile of debris had blockaded the corridor not three meters in front of them. Crumpled and destroyed gurneys, caved in shelving, and an assortment of tiles lay twisted together like Grawp's version of Jenga.

And in between the small cracks in the twisted metal, he could see that the ceiling on the opposing side had caved in.

Thank fucking Merlin for shield charms. Had he not cast his when he had they'd have been crushed to death.

At least Ron and Hermione sounded okay, if their arguing was anything to go by. He breathed a sigh of relief, feeling a weight leave his chest as he slumped back on the wall. "Great," he muttered. "Just great…"

Abruptly the voluminous noise from the storm dropped in volume, as if someone had taken a dial on a Muggle stereo and turned it down. He'd bet money Hermione or Ron had cast a shielding charm on the skylight.

The witch and her substantial cleavage didn't notice. They both looked at him, her full lips drawing into a thin, firm line. "I wasn't kidding about time being an issue," she said plainly. "The mud flow will get here eventually, and when it does it's going to block our exit routes. If we don't get out we're going to get crushed at worst, and suffocated at best. Besides, it's not exactly," her eyes flickered towards the bowed in ceiling directly above them, "sturdy."

He snorted. "Even better," he muttered. He had questions. Oh, he had lots of questions for her, like how she knew a mud flow was mysteriously defying Hermione and the city planner's meticulously plotted out path, or why she had _really_ still been in the clinic, or how she'd known to send the patients and staff away in the first place.

But right now wasn't the time.

And then, because despite the alleged time crunch it was the right thing to do, he cracked an eye at her and this time made sure to keep his eyes determinedly on her face. "How about you? You okay?"

Harry couldn't be sure, but something in her guarded expression changed. "You want to know if _I'm_ okay?"

"I asked, didn't I?"

The dripping around them was shockingly loud.

The witch blinked, that strange expression lingering a moment too long, and in that extra second he placed it. As someone who had grown up without anything resembling affection, he should have recognized it immediately.

She was surprised he'd bothered to ask.

He couldn't decide if he should be offended by that or not.

He quirked an eyebrow at her, pointedly waiting.

The girl hastily brushed her wet hair back behind her ears. "Yes," she said, injecting enough casualness into the syllable that Harry wondered if it helped her _almost_ believe it. "Yes, I'm fine. You know, if we discount the utter beating we just took and chalk it up to a bad massage from a poorly skilled masseuse." She paused, nose wrinkling in thought. "Swore they said the huts here had those."

"Take it you were here on vacation?" he remarked dryly.

Again, that peculiar look. "I suppose," she stated carefully, "you could call it that."

"Yeah, well," he ground, "me too. Though me getting drug here was more or less unwilling…"

Her lips parted in a knowing, "Ah. So what was it? Work, booze or girls?"

" _A_ girl," he emphasized the singular portion of that, rather irritatedly.

It looked like she wanted to ask him to elaborate, but she didn't, and he didn't give her the chance. Talking about Ginny was at the absolute bottom of his to do list. So he shoved himself up, or rather tried. His arm was still curiously numb so it didn't go as planned, Harry's hand slipping and sending his torso bashing against the wall.

If only his Auror mates could see him now. Harry-fucking-Potter, wizarding savior and all around stumbler.

The witch fixed him with one of those irritated looks only females could master, and grabbed at his good arm, giving him a pointed tug.

It got him to his feet, but that only resulted in them both stumbling into one another in the sole-deep water and splashing it into their already water-logged shoes. Judging from the look on her face she wasn't much more pleased with that then he was, but they managed to stagger towards the towering pile of hospital crap now blocking the hallway. Harry felt oddly steady now that he was upright, a testament to the multiple beatings he'd taken during Dudley's 'Harry hunting' days and Voldemort's 'Boy-Who-Lived' chasing ones.

The girl with him, however, didn't.

He let her lean on him and shot her a skeptical look.

This time she at least had the good grace to wince. "My ankle seems to be twisted," she admitted.

Harry just nodded, and without a word slung his arm around her waist, using his good arm to hold her steady while he assessed their current situation. Her weight pressed subtly against him as she bent one knee, taking her weight off it. She had her wand out, aiming it down at her foot with a concerted expression, gnawing on her lower lip as if she couldn't quite remember something important.

He strongly suspected that it was the spell for fixing sprained ankles.

"Harry, you alright mate?" Ron shouted, voice overly loud for someone who couldn't be more than two meters away. Harry winced, seeing his friend's blue eye peering through a hole in the debris. His freckled face looked decidedly wet.

Harry nodded, even though he doubted they would see. "Yeah," he assured. "Turns out our no-named witch here's a Healer. Fixed me up. How about you lot?" Blue-brown eyes shot up to him, her lips parting in an out-of-place, almost startled look. Harry simply widened his eyes and mouthed, ' _Well what is it?'_ at her.

For a moment she simply stared at him, the witch quickly lowering her face to hide a slight smile.

Despite himself, despite their situation, Harry smirked, lowering his head alongside her ear to mutter, "Fine. Brat it is then."

Before she had a chance to call him an asshole again Hermione's voice cut through the hulking and twisted scrap metal. "Harry, what exactly do you mean by fixed up?" She sounded rather shrill.

"We're alright, Harry," Ron cut his girlfriend off hastily, before she could start worrying. "Roof caved mostly in, but Hermione's got some kind of shielding charm on it so the wind and rain aren't getting through so much now. Bit of protection and all."

Ah, well that explained why the noise had died down.

"We can't move this contraption though," Ron continued. "We could try with magic, but Hermione reckons it's holding the rest of the roof up and if we move it…" a loud clapping sound indicated Ron smacking his hands together, promising imminent doom for all parties.

The witch besides him closed her eyes. "Let me guess," she muttered, "it'll come crashing down on our side and squash us flat."

"About sums it up," Ron replied.

"Stellar…"

The four fell silent for about ten seconds, and then-

A pale purple light spilled out of the witch's wand, encircling her ankle, and Harry felt her fingers tighten against his forearm as the spell did whatever it was going to do. She took a second to simply breathe, casting another one that sent bandages wrapping around it quickly.

Then she stood there, leaning heavily on him, breathing hard and deep, as if the magic had taken something vital out of her.

That was actually mildly concerning.

Harry nudged her to get her attention, doing what he always did when shit was dour: downplayed it. He tilted his head at his own recently healed arm and the bandages she'd wrapped around it. "We match."

She stared.

He was undeterred. "What? Thought witches liked that sort of thing."

From the other side of the barrier came an awed sort of voice. "Hermione," Ron hissed, "I think he's hitting on her."

Both Harry and the witch's heads turned slowly, staring at the pile of debris. She looked aghast, while Harry flat out glared.

His best mate's blue eye blinked through a tiny hole at him, and Harry seriously considered poking it with something.

Ron let out a mock sort of whistle.

The witch's lips parted, a slight sputter emitting. Harry couldn't blame her. He was going to pummel Ron when they got out of here.

And then, as if the universe was in favor of sparing Ron Weasley's life, a tiny piece of drywall flaked down from the ceiling, falling right in front of their noses to land softly in the now ankle-deep water.

It occurred to Harry only then that the water was getting deeper.

"Shit…"

"We need to go."

She reacted before he did, speaking at the pile of debris separating them from his two best friends. "Can you both reach the entrance?" she called earnestly. "The water's getting deeper!"

"Ron…" Hermione said.

Harry shook his head. "Can you two reach the entrance? If so get the hell out."

"We're not leaving you!" Hermione snapped.

He almost smiled at her concern. He handled dragons and she was afraid a hurricane would do him in. "Don't worry Hermione, this witch knows the layout. We'll get out another way." He paused, glancing at the witch at his side. "You _do_ know the layout?"

Her lips twitched, as if amused. "We'll have to go out one of the back windows, but yes." She glanced over her shoulder, adding, "The back exit is a bit…compromised."

Something about the way she said that made Harry strongly suspect she'd had something to do with it. "Oh? Is it now?"

She shot him an exasperated look.

"Just curious how it got to be that way."

The girl closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. "Okay, Mr. Auror-man," she said, oddly not making it sound insulting. "This is a sturdy looking building that people are going to be attracted to for shelter, but I knowit's going to be levelled, so…what would you have done?" She fixed him with a challenging look. "I couldn't exactly risk anyone sneaking in the back, now could I?"

Harry considered this. "Fair enough."

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right here, and it didn't take his year on the run or training as an Auror to know that.

His jaw set in a taut line as his gaze flickered across hers. She held it determinedly. Everything about this girl set him on edge. The way she'd just shown up, relaxed on a gurney, casual as Crookshanks in front of the common room hearth. The way she'd bantered back and forth with Ron and Hermione, as if toying with them for her own amusement. The way she'd claimed to be a Healer, yet looked no older than him. The way her hands had shaken, nervous as she'd fixed his broken arm. The way she hadn't been able to remember a simple spell for a sprained ankle immediately. The way she'd seemed surprised that someone had helped her.

But most of all it was the way she now stood there, soaking wet, her clothing torn and disheveled, dark hair hanging in a messy fringe around her face. That face was plain: _beyond_ fucking plain. It was the kind of face you'd pass in a crowd and not have a prayer of remembering. She was so plain, so physically boring to look at it was actually painful. Yet her _eyes_...

Brown bled into blue, the blue startlingly bright.

Right now those weird eyes held his, dark lashes narrowing slightly, water dripping from her equally dark eyebrows as she waited, impatiently.

Harry's mind racked the facts he had at hand: she'd been certain that the clinic would soon be buried under mud, even claimed they'd evacuated preemptively; she'd ignored Hermione's assurance that the city planner claimed the clinic to be in a safe zone; and she'd made that flippant, too casual comment that topography could change, as if the lay of the land could suddenly just shift without rhyme or reason, as if the ground could just up and _move_.

Harry might not be an expert on storms, but he was pretty certain that landslides, mudflows, and flash floods didn't exactly give you a ton of advance notice before they hit.

There was no way she could know that. Yet something about the way she was looking at him, about the look in her eyes, told him she was deadly serious.

Something crawled straight through his blood. She'd done something, but he didn't know what.

Now though wasn't the time.

Hermione spoke up and he yanked his gaze away from hers. His best friend was protesting the wisdom of splitting up, and taking a deep breath he cut her off. "It's reasonable, Hermione. You two go, get out of here and we'll meet you outside. If we for some reason get separated we'll meet you at that Muggle clinic. Alright? Worst case scenario we'll coordinate by patronus charms."

He could practically feel Hermione tensing, it bringing a wry smirk to his face.

"Fine, but…"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

He snorted. "I'm always careful."

"Like hell you-"

Her outburst was truncated by Ron deciding he'd had enough. Harry heard a grunt, a minor scuffle, followed by a Hermione-like squeak. "RON! Put me down!"

Judging from the sounds of someone being drug, Ron had ignored her. His best mate did manage to shout out an apology for his girlfriend, barking out, "See you soon, mate!" in parting.

Then, through the barrier, Harry distinctly heard Ron growling at Hermione 'to stop worrying so much, because if he could face down a psychopathic Muggle-murdering nutter alone then he could surely handle some _wind_. Besides, it wasn't Harry's fault he attracted so much trouble. The poor bastard was probably just born under a bad sign, or something. Hell, did she reckon that'd explain Neville?'

Harry stared at the barrier as if that would allow him to see their retreating backs and scowled. "You let someone Avada your ass just once…" he muttered darkly, ignoring the startled look the nameless witch shot him.

And that was how he found himself standing in now calf-deep sludge, water dripping from the ceiling, his arm looped around the waist of someone he didn't know, wasn't at ease with, while his two best friends in the world walked out into a hurricane without him.

They were walking into danger _without him_.

He let that sink in. With the exception of the Battle of Hogwarts, when they'd all been rushing to find Ravenclaw's diadem and when he'd gone on his suicide mission, they had never split up when in danger. Never intentionally, but they had now.

They'd just walked out into that storm alone, based on the word of a witch whose name they didn't even know.

His pulse quickened. Without thinking he drug his free hand over his head, fisting his fingers in the roots.

He had to compartmentalize or he was going to start making mistakes.

He took a deep breath, and did exactly that. First problem: they had to get out of here. He glanced down at the witch by his side. "Can you weight that?" He nodded down. "Your ankle. Because if you can't were not getting very far." What he'd give for his broom right then. Hurricane or not, he'd bet he could still fly it.

"Yes." She lifted it, then put it down in the water, as if testing it. "Yes, I'll be fine."

"Good." It came out harsher than intended, and when her eyes darted up she seemed to flinch.

Harry took another deep breath, the witch wordlessly sensing his mood and extricating herself from his hold. She paused for only a second, giving his arm a quick squeeze, uttering a quiet, "Thank you, for not letting me fall while I fixed it."

He didn't have a response for that, so he didn't give her one. "Let's find a window," he said instead, "and while we do that maybe you can explain how you're so certain this imminent 'threat' is about to happen. Because if I just sent my two best friends back out into _that_ unnecessarily-"

"Would you believe," she had sloshed gingerly to the nearest doorway, shoving at it, "that I scouted the area before Mitch made landfall?"

His derisive snort answered that.

The door still hadn't budged, so he stepped forward, flicking his wand at it and unlocking it. The click and the look on her face – that look of 'shit why didn't I think of that?' – was more satisfying than he cared to admit. So he didn't, he just arched an eyebrow. "What did you mean by Mitch?"

"The hurricane."

He frowned. "You named it?"

She cast an odd look over her shoulder. "Muggles always name storm systems. Didn't you know?"

He hadn't, but he kept his mouth shut on that as he shoved the door open with his foot, gesturing for her to go first. Mainly because he had no desire to turn his back to her.

The room they had entered was full of clinic beds and curtain partitions, the water having seeped into here too from the ceiling. The dripping water had left long, dark stains down the fabric in straight lines, and the wet streaks looked almost like blood. Clearly particles of rust had mixed with the rainwater, leaking in from the roof.

On the opposite side of the room were two windows, plenty large enough for two people to squeeze out of.

The witch tried to step towards them, and Harry reached out and grabbed her by the back of her jacket, his fingers sinking into the leathery fabric. "Wait," he ordered, dark gaze jerking across the long row of glass. Easily breakable glass, that could be turned into hundreds of deadly, tiny shards.

The witch went instantly still, and his gaze darted across the glass paneling as he tried to strategize how to go about this. They might be in a hurry, allegedly, but one thing Kingsley had drilled into his head was to never rush at anything. Hurrying made you reckless, and reckless Aurors wound up buried six feet under or lit up on a funeral pyre.

Besides, Harry'd had seven years of rushing into situations with more guts than brains, and while Voldemort might be gone, there was still a long list of deaths that he, Harry-fucking-Potter, was responsible for to go with it.

So he waited a second and studied the windows. They were all closed, but the panes would tilt out to open. Problem was the wind on this side of the building was coming straight _at_ them. There would be no way they'd force the panes open against that, and even if they did he sure as hell wasn't going to put his vital organs between a two hundred plus kilometer an hour wind and something sharp. He briefly considered going back out into the hall to try a room on the opposite side of the building – it'd eliminate the wind issue – but then realized that there were no doors on that side of the hall, not ones they could still get to, anyway.

So they were stuck here.

Harry's fingers flexed in thought, tightening in the dark leather covering the no-name witch, and he swore he felt her subtly shift until his knuckles dug deeper against her spine. He didn't comment upon it, and neither did she.

"I think we're going to have to break them," he said tensely.

She nodded sharply, but otherwise remained silent.

He still hadn't let go of her, his breathing and hers sounding oddly loud in the otherwise quiet room, once you got past the Category Five raging outside.

"What are you better at?" he finally asked. "Shielding and vanishing charms or breaking shit?" He felt, more than heard her sniff of amusement, and deciding he didn't give a fuck he gave her a pointed tug back.

She thudded effortlessly against his chest, Harry snaring her like a damn snitch. Her spine pressed against his pectorals, her hair in his face, and his jaw set for a tense, irritated moment as he tried to not enjoy what she smelled like. They were in the middle of a fucking hurricane and had just taken a verifiable bath in stagnant rooftop water; she shouldn't smell nice.

She said nothing; she just shivered against him.

Harry tried not to think about how much he liked that.

"I'm serious," he ground humorlessly. "The second we break that the wind is going to throw every shard at us at two hundred kilometers an hour. Fuck up a shield charm and were dead, and I'm not sure I can cast both fast enough. Not back to back." He paused. "I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good." After all, he hadn't gotten to Ron in time, and the image of his best mate frozen outside the clinic doors with dozens of deadly shrapnel hovering centimeters from his chest had been seared into Harry's mind. Ron could have died, and had Hermione not been there he probably would have.

If Harry were honest, it'd rattled him.

Which meant if they were going to break the fuck out of here they'd need to use teamwork.

The girl remained leaning against his chest, her back to him, so he tilted his head to get a better look at her face. "Unless you've got some unfulfilled, lifelong desire to impersonate ground meat," he questioned, tone dour as fuck.

The witch took a shallow, shuddering breath. "In that case," she said, "I better break it. You do the shield or vanish what's left. I've never been the-" she paused. "I wasn't the best in charms or defense."

He blinked. "And you're a Healer?"

She shot him a glare. "Asshole."

He smirked for a half second. "At your service."

A ghost of a grin touched her face, and his heart pounded in a way that had him seriously pissed off at his most vital of organs. He did not trust this witch, and he reckoned the muscle powering his very existence should know that. He chalked it up to his recent celibacy.

Ginny really was a serious bitch. He had half a mind to owl someone to request the storm get renamed after her.

The brief, momentary flicker of mirth seemed to dance in her eyes, fading slowly. It faded into something else. Harry's stomach lurched straight up, then twisted in on itself, rather like it did when diving on a broom mid-match. They should be moving, blasting their way out of here, yet neither one of them was moving. Rational thought had clearly fled his mind.

Abruptly the witch turned her face away, averting her eyes. Her dark, wet hair fell to veil her profile, but he could still see a hint of those plain features. She wasn't pretty, her long eyelashes framing those remarkable eyes the only real interesting thing about her. He didn't get it, and he didn't try to.

Perhaps that was unfair though; he did like her cleavage.

He drug in a rough breath and released his hold abruptly, stepping away to get some distance. Judging by the look on her face she seemed equally relieved.

"No offense," he said, "but do you have the power to actually do that? Blasting spells aren't exactly easy and you don't exactly look…" He let his gaze drop up and down her pointedly. She didn't look particularly strong at anything, so he was right to be skeptical. In the post war world where war hero tales still flew, it had become almost fashionable for people to claim prowess at exploding hexes, but not many actually could. It required a raw power that most witches and wizards lacked.

She made an unamused sound. "You're really trying to cement that asshole impression, aren't you?" This time it was not said affectionately.

"What makes you think it's just an impression? Maybe I really am one."

She spun in the water and looked at him. Just looked. And Harry looked right back, studying the shockingly blue irises, the brown bleeding into them unevenly. The asymmetry made it hard to look at her, and yet he couldn't look away.

Shit.

He took a step forward, nodding past her. "Well just in case I have to identify your body later, got a name?"

Her nose crinkled immediately, like a startled rabbit. "What?"

"Your name," he repeated. He kept his voice calm, controlled, but there was a tight edge to it. "What is it? Unless you want me to just keep calling you the no-name witch in my head?"

Right. There it was again, that taken aback look, like no one had ever cared enough to ask her simple questions like 'are you alright' and 'what is your name?' At least this time she actually answered him. "Sara."

It was an oddly common name for someone that seemed anything but. He had the distinct and instant feeling she was lying.

He set his jaw. "Alright, Sara." He extended a hand. "Ready when you are."

At this her lips fell apart. "Oh hell no," she said. "I gave my name up, so not going anywhere unless you do too." She stood there, in the ankle deep water, and quite literally crossed her arms over her chest as if prepared to wait. "Come on then, out with it."

Harry gaped, aware that this wasn't the time and that Ron and Hermione were probably waiting for them outside somewhere, in a less than safe spot. Still, it was his turn to sputter, "Seriously?" His face had been plastered all over the wizarding papers worldwide, much to his chagrin. Not being recognized wasn't typically an issue.

She just lifted her eyebrows at him. He'd seen that look before. He'd seen it on Ginny, Hermione, Tonks, Mrs. Weasley, and even Lavender back when she'd been trying to cajole Ron into going to Puddifoots. It meant Sara wasn't taking no for an answer and would happily wait him out, storm be damned.

Well shit.

For some strange, inexplicable reason he didn't want this witch to know he was Harry Potter. Not when he didn't trust her and when he'd bet almost anything that she'd given him a false name herself. So he opened his mouth to give her one of his own.

He was mildly startled when the word, "James," came tumbling out.

Something triumphant sparkled within her eyes, as if amused. "There, not so hard now, was it?" And with that she spun on her heel as the lights flickered ominously. The witch planted her feet shoulder width apart, one foot slightly in front of the other, bringing her wand up to bear directly in front of her chest. She took several short, quick breaths, as if steeling herself, her nose scrunching up in concentration. Hell, it would have been cute if not for the situation.

She cast a glance over her shoulder, "Ready?"

He nodded. "Ready."

He saw the oxygen tanks right next to the wall a second too late, his yell truncated when she shouted the blasting curse, the bright light exploding right above them.

And that was how Harry Potter helped blow the wall off the side of a hospital.

* * *

**EYHORH**

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Thank you to both Nauze and Pwrless for letting me bounce ideas for this off of you! It has been tremendously helpful!

**Plot Warnings (since every story needs these):**

This is a Daphne/Harry fic.

This story is rated M for sexual scenes and violence during both natural and man-made disasters. You can't say I didn't warn you.

This is canon compliant through the end of book 7, discounting the epilogue. I am also keeping with canon in that Astoria inherited her family's blood curse. However, I am taking some creative liberties as I see fit (because this is fanfiction). For instance, Harry will not be the richest wizard on the planet as that would make life too easy for him. (Discounting JKR's stance on his family inheritance.)

There will be no Weasley bashing in this story (despite it's opening line, we must forgive Harry for being upset about his breakup after all). I'm all for conflict, but superfluous bashing makes 0 sense to me without substance. You will not find that here.

A note on Daphne: The stereotypical appearance of Daphne Greengrass (blonde hair and blue eyes) is purely due to fandom. JKR never took a stance on it in the actual books. The whole 'pureblood princess ice queen' persona is also purely from fandom (though I do enjoy fics with this persona). So, as is the purpose of fanfiction, I have taken creative liberties. If you can handle that, read on. If you're 100 percent married to fandom's ice queen persona and her fandom appearance, this may not be the tale for you.

To answer a question that came up several times: Daphne is doing something illegal and none of the trio recognized her, so yes, she is disguised. Magic is fabulous for things like that. Plus, the little bit we know about Auror training mentioned stealth and concealment, so there are obviously charms in existence for appearance changing. We will use these in spades.

A genetics note (because I'm a geek): Heterochromia is a type of eye coloring where the person has different eye colors. This, contrary to popular belief, is _not_ an exotic thing. In fact, it's more common then green eyes (Harry you dog you). I personally know 6 people with this mutation, and I've found that most people don't even notice when their friends have it unless it's extreme (which Daphne's is not).

There are several types (and causes) of heterochromia: Complete, where both eyes are completely different colors, such as having one blue eye and one green (less than 1% of the population); segmental/partial, where both eyes could have multiple colors mixed within them prominently (1 to 2%); and central, where there is a ring around the pupil that is a different color than the rest of the iris (1 to 2%). At any point in time between 2-5% of the world population has some variation of it (some variations are more rare than others). Statistically speaking, heterochromia is _more_ common than green eyes, as only 2-3% of the world population has green eyes. In desktop view the story image shows an example of what Daphne's eyes would look like for those who are curious. My stats are coming from having worked in an advanced genetics lab in my younger impressionable years, where eye color was studied. A lot of studies state it's 1% of the population, but those are usually only taking into account one type of heterochromia and not the whole gambit of types, including the subtler versions.

That being said, have fun. I appreciate constructive comments (not flames, as it takes no intelligence to flame) so I know what people think plot wise. It's my first Daphne fic attempt so any feedback on it will be highly appreciated. I also do not currently have a beta so take mercy on me if there are any typos in these behemoth sized chapters. Sadly I do not get paid to write fanfiction (blast!) so I don't always have time to re-read things 30 times prior to posting to ensure all typos are completely expunged, but I do my absolute best to make sure there are none or they are kept to a minimum.

In the meantime thanks for reading!


	2. Mitch is a Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fact that they weren't dead was a testament to natural selection being a fucking myth.

**Chapter 2 ~ Mitch is a Bitch**

* * *

"We cannot run from who we are; our destiny chooses us."

~ David Levien

* * *

The fact that they weren't dead was a testament to natural selection being a fucking myth.

Then again, maybe Mother Nature, God and Merlin had decided to give the Boy-Who-Fucking-Lived a pass and locked Darwin and company up, just long enough to ensure he didn't get himself killed doing something unfathomably stupid, like blowing up oxygen tanks and an unsuspecting clinic's entire West wall.

Either way, Harry found himself outside in the midst of a hurricane, battered and bleeding from more places than he could count, his body slammed up against part of the clinic that had remained standing against all odds. Rubble lay scattered at his feet, large chunks of brick and concrete piled precariously high, the plaster dust having been scattered and blown clear down to Nicaragua. Sara had collapsed alongside him, his grip fisted in the witch's coat to keep her from blowing away.

There was also a shard of glass sticking out of his upper arm, but that was just another one of those trivial details he'd have to handle later. Sara had been rather clear that he shouldn't pull it out. Something about torn arteries, bleeding out, and imminent death or some shit.

He really had to thank Hermione for this vacation.

"I don't see them!" he bellowed, the howling wind so loud and fast it physically hurt.

Sara's hair thrashed around her face like a Greek legend's unruly snakes. She shook her head, making the likeness worse. "They'd be on the other side of this if they were smart!" she shouted. "The wind won't hit them as hard there! Soon as they're across the field the hills on this side block some of it!"

Given that Harry had personally come from that direction, he had trouble believing that was the 'nicer' weather. But hey, at least now he had a first class seat to see everything Mitch had to throw at them.

Great. Just great.

The hurricane's fury plastered their bodies to the decimated outer wall of the clinic, the bricks digging into his back. The air – the literal air – slammed against him with enough force that it sent every exposed nerve of his flesh screaming. It was like a tuned down version of the Cruciatus, only instead of his own screams on surround sound there was the hollowing rumble of the wind.

He made a mental note to go piss on Voldemort's ashes soon as he got back to Britain.

Hell, he'd make a stop by Lestrange's too, just for good measure.

Grand pissing tour ambitions aside, right now it was like the end of the world, and they were out in it. They'd had little choice; after they'd blown open the clinic's outer wall it'd made the structure unstable, and neither of them had been particularly keen to stay inside to get crushed.

So they'd rushed out here, only for the wind to slam them back against the same building they were trying to flee.

Squinting through his glasses Harry looked around to orient himself, searching for a safe path to take. There wasn't one. The clinic had been situated out in the open. Shit was flying through the air at incredible speed. He'd heard somewhere – probably Hermione – that in winds like this that something as benign as a plastic straw could be thrown straight through a tree trunk. He could only imagine what that'd do to internal organs, so he didn't fancy their chances of making a run across open ground. Not now. The nearest buildings were located over a hilly crest, and judging from the water pouring down it, that hill now resembled more of a waterfall than actual ground. He doubted either of them could maintain a strong enough shield charm against flying debris to make it safely up that.

And Ron and Hermione were out in it.

His stomach plummeted.

He tried to move-

"NO!"

Sara all but slammed him back against the wall. She'd twisted, shoving her hands against his shoulders with a fierce look, only for the wind to slam her flat against him.

He grunted. Harry wound up with her soaked form flush to his chest. Everything hurt, the pressure of her body making it worse as her hair whipped into his face. She tried to move off him, only to slip, Harry grabbing her with his good arm, both their feet slipping in the thick, ankle deep mud as they quite literally stuck to one another.

A palm frond flew past, smacking into the building alongside them, the storm getting worse.

He tried to breathe, but she was crushing him. "What the hell are you doing?" he snarled.

Unreadable eyes snapped up, glaring through her swirling hair and rain. "Are you bleeding insane?! This might be your first hurricane, James, but it _isn't_ mine! You can't just run out there! Not when you're still inured! You'll get yourself killed!"

Frustrating reared up. "We don't have time for this!"

"Make time!" she snapped, managing to plant her feet deep enough in the mud to stop slipping. She'd braced herself shamelessly against him, her hips digging into his in a way that seriously reminded him that she was a woman and he an extremely celibate man, the witch forming a steady tripod-like stance while she grabbed at his left arm to look at it.

The disturbingly large glass shard in his upper arm screamed. Lancing pain shot clear down to his fingers the second it moved, and he was fairly certain he could feel his literal artery beating around it. It throbbed, and it wasn't happy. But before he could ask what the bloody hell Sara thought she could do about it in this tumult, a static-crackling filled the air.

It was the crackling of a walkie talkie.

Hermione had been carrying theirs.

"Hermione!" he shouted, once again trying to shove her off him.

The girl slammed her forearm practically against his throat, and Harry went rigid more out of shock than anything else. He had no doubt he could pick Sara up and physically throw her to the dirt, but he also didn't want to hurt her. So for now he froze, his fingers tightening remorselessly against the back of her coat, his face contorted in pure annoyance.

"Will you fucking STOP!?" he barked. "That's Hermione and Ron's radio! They could be HURT! We have to get to them!"

"It's not Hermione," she said calmly, though loudly. "That's my radio, not hers." She dropped her forearm away from his throat, Harry coughing to make sure his trachea still worked right. Sara, to her credit, didn't so much as even look at him, her entire attention fixated on his upper arm.

Harry blinked the water out of his eyes and squinted angrily down at her. "Why in the hell do _you_ have one?"

She didn't even blink, bald-facedly plucking at either side of the tear the glass had made in his jacket to get at the wound. "You didn't think I was working alone out here did you?"

"Analyzing what you were doing wasn't exactly at the top of my priority list."

She sniffed with disdain, but her attention never wavered, not even as the radio hidden somewhere upon her personage crackled again. What she did do was grimace, her eyes shooting up to lock onto his, blue swirling with brown. "This barely missed your brachial artery, James. We have to fix this before you move anywhere." She tightened her hold on his arm, as if afraid he'd do just that. "I'm amazed it hasn't gotten dislodged already, so _please_ don't fight me on this."

Harry studied her face closely, but only determination and worry crossed her features. His mouth went dry. "Alright."

Surprise flickered within her irises for the briefest of seconds.

Then she gave a curt nod, glancing around, clearly looking for the best place to do this. Like him she clearly spotted nothing so just ordered, "Sit, and don't move your arm when you do it!"

He did as told. They managed to hunker down behind and under the wreckage, the ruined wall they'd blown out blocking the wind from at least two directions. An overhang of the clinic's roof – a small piece that had survived, for now – helped. It was a tight space, and it wouldn't hold for long, but it would do.

Harry sank into the muck as Sara flat out knelt on his leg, unearthing a pocket knife from Merlin-knew where. She grabbed at his arm and cut the sleeve on either side of the glass, muttering, "Hope you weren't too attached to this coat."

He shot a wry look down at the top of her head. "Would it make any difference?"

"No."

"So why ask?"

"Years of upbringing to be polite?" Her eyes flickered up to his, a tiny, teasing smile touching her lips. "Even when my patient is being a bit of an ass."

He groaned, thudding his head back against the building – or what was left of it. "Cut the guy a break. I suspect he's had a bit of a rough day." He paused. "Month really."

Lightning flashed overhead, the brief flicker making the strange coloration of her eyes stand out as she studied him for another short second, before returning her attention back to his arm. "Good thing he's got a captive audience he'll never see again," she commented, the skin around the glass now fully exposed, but she just stared at it, her voice a bit tight. "I hear venting is downright cathartic."

"Great, so you're one of those sorts that tries to force people to talk." He said it as if it were a punishment unimaginable.

"On the contrary. I'm a big believer in repressing things until they bubble over and blow up in my face," she told with false casualness. "But, you know, people better adjusted then I claim it helps…"

He snorted outright. "So this is the part where you tell me this is a 'safe' space, I spill my guts and you nod in all the appropriate places while playing psychotherapist?"

"Better than the alternative."

"Which is?"

"You fixating on what I'm about to do to you."

Harry grimaced, but the storm was growing worse, and even with the pathetic shelter they'd found in the rubble they were still outside, exposed, and his ass was sinking deeper into the mud by the minute. "Trust me, I've had worse," he grated. "Just get it over with."

She nodded tightly, taking a deep breath, but Harry didn't miss the way her knuckles had grown white around the wood of her wand, the witch seeming to hesitate.

She hesitated a moment too long.

Now Harry had a whole new reason to feel sick, his previous suspicion all but confirmed. "You're not really a Healer, are you?" He'd lost feeling in his bloody fingers by this point, and given that she had a wand poised over his flesh he thought it was a pertinent question.

Sara didn't even look up at him. "Student, actually," she admitted, lifting her free hand, fingers hovering very near the glass shard as if uncertain on how best to grab it. "So cut me some slack. I'm still mentally going through a check list of all the things that can go terribly wrong here."

"Well isn't that comforting."

She shot him a sharp look, and despite the fucked up situation he actually smirked.

The slight bit of terror in her expression let up.

Her radio crackled again, a muffled male voice coming through it. All Harry caught were the words _you_ and _clear_.

Like before Sara ignored it, her attention returning to his injury. There was a sense of urgency about her, it practically rolling off her in waves. Harry sat there in his impromptu mud bath and waited, mentally weighing the odds of another Lockhart incident. This was a blood vessel issue, and like his bones he was literally attached to them.

Sara was moving her hand around uncertainly, twisting her wrist and wand and fingers as if trying to get the best angle, all the while trying to not hit her head on the rubble. It looked awkward and uncomfortable as hell, but given she was allegedly helping him he wasn't about to complain.

She paused, as if realizing something, and he swore to Merlin that a pale color tinged her cheeks. She looked up and a slightly sheepish expression crossed her face, for but a second, and she muttered, "Sorry about this."

She honestly didn't sound sorry at all.

Before Harry could ask about what she'd shoved a hand flat against his chest and thrown her other leg over him, straddling him, literally sitting in his lap as she ducked low beneath the overhanging concrete slab. Her face was close to his, her chest shoved against him, and despite the pain daggering through his numbing arm he was positive his own face heated up.

Sara's new position in life had two immediate effects: First, even Harry could admit it gave her a better angle and better access to his injury. Second, it _definitely_ distracted him from whatever it was she was about to do. It was a bit hard not to, given she was sitting and all but rubbing on top of his favorite piece of anatomy.

He sucked in a breath, shooting a wry look down at the top of her head. "Couldn't wait to throw yourself at me, could you?"

The witch shot him a glare.

He smirked in a way that would have gotten him slapped by Hermione.

Sara simply twisted around, adjusting until her wand was aimed at his inner arm, right where the glass shard had pierced. Problem was she literally rubbed all over him doing this, and it took everything in him to avoid groaning audibly. So he clenched his gaze shut and bit down on his tongue.

He fucking hated this girl and he'd only known her for twenty minutes.

He also really wanted her to stay right where she was, on top of him.

His heart hammered in his chest and he vowed to have a long talk with himself later about priorities.

Sara was oblivious, and Harry heard her take a deep breath. "Hold as still as possible," she requested. "This…I'm afraid this is going to hurt and I'll need to move fast in case I nick your artery."

"You've really got a way of inspiring confidence."

Sara shot him a piercing look, then shifted on his lap to grasp his elbow with one hand and the shard with the other. Holding his arm still she slowly, painstakingly began to drag the glass out of his bicep.

Harry's teeth clenched and he bit back a moan, from pain or pleasure he really wasn't sure.

He did, however, develop some great suggestions for St. Mungo's if they wanted to improve their patient satisfaction surveys.

The glass slid wetly out of him, his skin seeming to pop closed around the wound. He wouldn't lie; it wasn't exactly a good feeling.

A second later he heard something clank, and felt a warm rush of liquid wetting his sleeve.

"It's out," she declared, "and I didn't even nick the artery."

Fucking hell she sounded proud.

Immediately he began to regain feeling in his fingers.

"Can you feel your hand again?" she asked, all business.

"Great," he grated, "you're a mind reader too."

"It was compressing your artery." She paused. "Idiot."

Now it was his turn to chuckle, and Harry cracked his gaze to watch. Dark red blood welled out of the wound, fleshy, striated bits of muscle visible within it. It leaked freely down his arm, dripping into the water and mud pooling around them. He hissed a breath between his teeth as Sara cast a charm at it, the witch explaining, "Sterilizing…sort of," before she flat out shoved her entire wand _into_ the hole.

At this Harry absolutely did not shout. He grunted, like a man.

The sizzling and stench of his own flesh was noxious, Sara fusing the wound closed, her nose scrunched in concerted effort as she slowly slid her wandoutof it. Harry gritted his teeth so hard that he tasted blood. He was used to pain; he could handle it.

She yanked her wand out of his arm with a flourish, an angry red line where the straight and oozing slit had once been. Sara still donned a look of the utmost concentration, her nose still wrinkled, her eyes focused as she murmured another spell, moving her wand slowly in a tiny zig zag motion, stitches flying into place and mending the already soldered skin permanently closed.

Another spell slapped water-proof bandages over it – so she claimed - the witch releasing the vice grip she had on his elbow and sinking back, the witch practically falling back onto his knees. Her chest heaved with breath after shuddering breath, breathing as if she'd just finished a run. She sat there on his legs, pale and wet as the storm raged around them, their shelter beneath the rubble protecting them, and Harry watched as her eyes fluttered, the witch swaying.

His good hand shot out and grabbed her, making sure she didn't drop in exhaustion. The witch's eyes finally fell shut with an appreciative murmur. Then she tiredly lifted her own hand, blindly clasping onto the front of his coat. He practically felt her nails dig in, and he sucked in a shuddering breath all of his own.

The sensation of her touching him even through his coat was oddly pleasant.

His arm throbbed and his knees ached where she sat on them, but he didn't want her to move. The pain and pleasure mixed in a way that surely would have had Hermione sending him to speak with a shrink about his apparent sadomasochist tendencies if she ever mastered legilimency.

Together they sat like that for several minutes, Harry's healed arm hanging limply at his side as he waited for the pain to die down.

"Thanks," he finally grated, fingers flexing against her coat's front zipper.

Her eyes exhaustedly fluttered open, a tired but satisfied smile touching her face. "Mmm, let me guess, you thought I'd just leave you?" She shook her head slowly. "Couldn't do that. I'd lose my shield charm protection. I'm positive rubbish at them."

He chuckled darkly. "Ah, got it. You're not a good Samaritan. I'm just your shrapnel deterrent."

"You _did_ take that last hit for me."

"What'd you expect? I let it run you through?"

Cerulean and chocolate eyes flickered across his face, almost shrewd. Harry felt oddly self-conscious.

When she next spoke her voice was softer, curious. "No, I suspect that not playing the hero really isn't your style, is it?"

Harry felt strangely transparent, and it wasn't a feeling he liked. He forced a scoff. "If I didn't know better, would say you've been getting chummy with Hermione. She's constantly harping at me for that."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh? So this is a habit of yours?"

"Depends…which part?"

"The rescuing damsels in distress part."

He snorted, derisive. "You're out traipsing about in a hurricane. Somehow I doubt you've ever been classified as a damsel in distress."

Her rain-streaked cheeks grinned. "Mmm, true. But," she gave the front of his coat a tiny, pointed pull, a strong gust scattering a spray of water into their shelter, "don't think I'm so easily deterred. You didn't answer my question."

Now it was his turn to grin. "Persistent as Hermione too."

She tilted her head like a curious dog. "You're honestly thinking about another wizard's girl?"

"Shouldn't I be?"

"Depends if you want to be rewarded or not? That piece of glass _should_ have sunk into me. You're the one who knocked me out of the way." She paused. "Very sexy, by the way."

It took Harry a second.

It took Harry a long second.

It took Harry more seconds than he was proud of, but when it finally penetrated his thick skull his heart thudded unnaturally.

Merciful fucking Merlin she was flirting with him.

Then again she'd hit on both Ron and Hermione within the first thirty seconds. This really shouldn't shock him as much as it did. "You've healed me twice." How the fuck was his mouth this dry when he was drenched to his bones? "I'd call that sufficient."

"True," she murmured, closing her eyes, "but you did save me inside the clinic first. Thrice." Her eyes fluttered back open. "You know most normal wizards can't form shields that strong? We should have been crushed in that hall. And then blown up. And then impaled."

Normally he'd bristle at the reminder that he wasn't normal, but he didn't. He simply huffed a breath. "Most days I could hammer out that kind of damage before breakfast."

Now it was her turn to quietly laugh.

Silence lapsed, only the storm's whistling howl to grate against his ears, and Harry had to wonder where her concern over this alleged 'mud flow' had gone. That prickling at the back of his mind, that instinct that everything was not right, begged his attention.

He didn't give it. Not yet. He just contented himself with watching her, her plain face pale and streaked with mud. It seemed to be taking her longer than necessary to regain her strength, the witch looking rather like she wanted to collapse. He'd seen that often enough at training whenever Kingsley was feeling particularly sadistic. He'd have all the trainees run back-to-back drills; his own method of weeding out the wannabes who lacked the magical core to last in a prolonged fight for their life with a dark wizard, so Harry knew that look: it meant she had either already used a lot of magic before they'd even run into her, or her magical core was just a hell of a lot weaker than the average Auror.

Which begged the question, if it was the former, what had she been doing to drain her?

He filed the suspicion away for later, watching as those cursedly distracting eyes finally cracked to look at him.

A tiny, sheepish expression played around the edges of her mouth. "I am nowhere near," she admitted, "the level of magical endurance I'd need for battlefield healing." She let out a shaken laugh. "I'd get my head hexed off."

That caught him off guard, and his eyebrows arched in surprise. "You want to be a field healer?" The Auror department had them. They weren't used often, but when they were Harry sure as fuck didn't envy them. They had a remarkably low life expectancy given enemy fire tended to take them out first, when their backs were turned and they were helping patients. Their very job description left them somewhat defenseless and exposed. Consequently there was a whole fucking _wall_ dedicated to the dead ones on the Magical Law Enforcement's floor.

Oblivious to his dark thoughts the witch managed a small nod. "Is there any other kind? Any other healing seems like it'd be a bit boring."

Hermione had spoken about that, about maybe trying that type of healing. Ron had about blown a gasket. Regardless, for now the three of them were Aurors, but they all knew for Hermione it was just a temporary stopping point until Hogwarts was repaired and reopened. She had every intention of going back and sitting her NEWTs, then trying to do some good for the world. Perhaps as a Healer, perhaps not. Either way he could just imagine the blowout that was inevitably going to cause in his two best friends' happy little household.

And this witch described any other type of healing as boring.

Well shit.

The girl was looking at him with silent question, and Harry simply managed a rough grimace, his hand falling down from the front of her jacket to her waist and gripping there. "Suspect other Healers might take offense to the implication that they're dull."

Her eyes practically glittered. "Your point?"

"That you have a slightly perverse definition of boring?"

She hrmed in agreement.

"Not to mention," he added, "I highly doubt other healing specialties are dull. They're probably difficult enough to not be redundant."

"True…but those aren't nearly as fun."

 _Fun._ She thought battlefield healing would be fun.

"You can't possibly mean that."

"Why not?" she asked. "The adrenaline alone would make it exciting."

A sharp stab hit his gut, and he darkly wondered if she'd feel the same way if she had seen even a quarter of the things he had. At the Battle of Hogwarts he'd felt the earth shake, witnessed pillars slamming down atop classmates who had been fighting besides him seconds before. He'd witnessed the bodies of friends splayed out for identification in the Great Hall. Tonks, Remus, Fred…their weeping families collapsed to their knees. After everything that had happened he had left Ron and Hermione to grieve and walked off on his own. He'd needed time to think. He hadn't gotten it. Instead he'd watched as burnt and mutilated corpses were dredged from the Black Lake, while children who were half-alive yet beyond help were pulled from the edges of the Forbidden Forest, accromantula venom in their veins.

He'd tried to help even then; but there'd been nothing to do.

Helpless wasn't a good feeling.

"My experience," he muttered, "battlefield healing…there often isn't a lot you can do. People are either dead or they're not."

"Mmm. It's the ones that are _not_ that interest me."

The hard part of his throat rose and fell in a rough swallow. "Adrenaline junkie. Got it." He paused. "Would have fit right in at my Hogwarts house."

She let out a sharp laugh; it sounded almost bitter.

A new wave of water rolled across the ground and washed over his kneecaps, startling him. It swirled in a brownish-red pool, a mix of dirt and blood. The witch shivered where she sat, the water having chilled her as much as it had chilled him, and Harry realized that he was so wet and miserable that it had officially blurred into one giant beating. Hell, at some point he'd quite literally stopped noticing his own discomfort.

But now the water was rising, no longer soaking into the ground. It was too saturated, so what had once been mere centimeters deep was now inches. They needed to move.

The witch's fingers loosened their grip on his coat, and Harry felt paralyzed. He didn't move. The illusion of safety their 'nook' had offered had temporarily placated him, at least until her hand gave him a firm pat on the chest.

He glanced at her hand, as if it were an annoying fly, then looked back up. Water still dripped freely into his eyes and he subtly glared, hoping she'd see through his smeared glasses. "So you're patting me now?"

She looked amused. "I've had to heal you twice in twenty minutes," she replied, sounding as amused as she looked. "I had to make sure you were still there. One would almost think you're accident prone, you know."

He snorted. "You have no idea."

"Mmm, I'm sure I don't."

It occurred to Harry that he rather liked these _mmm_ -ing sounds she made.

He also rather liked the way her finger had started tracing patterns on his chest, rather like how a small child might, the devil-witch looking like she was enjoying herself.

"We really should move," she pressed. "Unless your vacation has been so bad you're just keen to hang around here and drown with me?"

He let out a groan and grabbed her hand, tugging it off his chest and clasping it. He clasped it tight enough that it might have actually hurt her. "Just when I was getting used to our cave," he muttered dourly, "you've got to be a spoilsport. You usually this fatalistic or is it just on account of the special occasion apocalypse were in?"

Her eyes practically glittered beneath mud coated eyelashes. "Well I suppose we could stay here and give cuddling a go, though there's that minor issue of a mudflow heading our way that might ruin the mood." She wiggled her fingers between his, Harry ignoring the electric shock that shot through him at the sensation.

He also ignored how damn good that proposition sounded.

Ginny had done a number on him. He was officially at the point where random cuddling with a stranger sounded nice.

The witch arched an eyebrow. "Well were we cuddling or running? Because really, I'm amenable to either."

Right. They had to move.

Harry set his jaw and said nothing. He just tightened his hold on her hand and clambered to his feet, ducking out from beneath their nook of rubble and slinging mud as he pulled her up and outside with him.

The full extent of the storm struck them like a battering ram. He took one step and found himself instantly thrown back against the clinic wall, the witch landing awkwardly against his chest. He managed to snag her, and his heart thundered even louder in his ears.

Harry found himself looking down at her, the witch looking up, and despite the insane downpour and the rain blowing sideways his mouth went dry again.

Fuck. He had to get it together. This girl wasn't even pretty.

Her radio resumed its incessant crackling and Harry jerked his attention away, grateful for the distraction. His gaze narrowed out into the storm to see what they were dealing with. The radio continued to go off, an annoyed sounding voice bellowing into it. "Better get that," he said, voice loud. "Sounds important."

Sara rooted around in her coat's outer pockets until she found the offending item, unearthing it in time for Harry to hear a loud male voice shouting about time tables. Before he could make out anything else Sara hit the button on the side, cutting the man off.

She did it almost purposefully, almost as if she didn't want Harry to hear what the man was saying.

"Rolando!" she instead shouted into it. "It's Sara. I ran into some…people. One's still with me. We're trying to get clear of the clinic still." Her words were hurried, rushed.

And then she waited.

Sara twisted around in his grip, Harry not stopping her. The wind was coming in so hard it physically hurt, pressing his cheeks back into his skull. His unruly hair smacked against his forehead, it everywhere. Sara's was worse. The witch's dark, shoulder-length hair was being battered about her face like a cyclone, and Harry quite literally lifted up a hand and seized a sizeable chunk of it, if only to keep it from striking him in the eyes and blinding him.

He already missed the improvised-rubble-shelter they'd just abandoned.

Another gust knocked Sara against him, the witch winding up with her back against his chest, breathing hard as she spoke, practically shouting into the speaker. Harry kept a firm grip on her, aware that neither of them would be making a break for it until she'd checked in with whomever was on the other end of that radio.

Actually, checking in was a good idea.

Ron and Hermione were still out there. He knew they could handle themselves, but like hell did he like being separated from them. So he dug out his wand, already searching for a cursedly happy though. A memory. Something pure. Something untainted.

Unfortunately he didn't have many of those left. Not that he'd admit it to Kingsley or Ron or especially Hermione, but casting the charm had been getting harder, not easier. But hell, a deficit of untainted good memories could do that to a man. Anything with Sirius or Remus or Tonks was unusable. He used to draw on memories of Ginny, but all that generated now was a flickering spectral form that was so weak it'd irritate a dementor at most, fat chance of it carrying a message.

So Harry snared onto a bitterly happy thought, one he'd repeatedly used. Every time he seized onto it, casting the message charm he half-expected the memory's potency to wear out, once and for all, but it never did. He still didn't get why.

A brief flash of the Forbidden Forest, of the resurrection stone, of his parents, Remus and Sirius….

It was bitterly happy because when he'd gone to face Voldemort, when he'd gone to die, he hadn't been alone.

"Expecto patronum," he muttered, a flip of his wand sending a bright silver light flying out into the torrent. A stag materialized in the rain, and with relief Harry told it, "Find Ron and Hermione. Ask where they are and if they're alright. Tell them I'm alright and we're heading to shelter."

It bolted off just in time for him to hear that male voice back on the walkie talkie.

" _-it's clear on my end. How long do you need?"_

Sara was shaking her head as if the person on the other end could see her, her dark hair whipping back into his face. "Five minutes? Maybe more."

A pause. Silence. And then…

" _Well hurry your ass up. This dam might break. Then I don't get a choice."_

She shuddered against his chest, nodding to herself. "I know. We're still a go. Just…just give me five minutes."

The hair on the back of Harry's neck stood up, and he didn't know why. "Go for _what_?" he asked, but Sara ignored him. She was too busy shoving the radio back into her pocket, getting ready to move.

He didn't miss how her body subtly tensed against his though.

The witch spun to face him, grabbing the front of his coat and giving it a pointed tug. "We have to move." She looked at him worriedly. "There's no way we're making it far enough the way your friends went to get clear in time. Do you think you're strong enough to cast another shield?" Her eyes flickered to his arm, then across the open area, then back to his arm. "You lost a lot of blood."

He wanted to press the issue, her strange behavior that didn't quite match up, his instincts screaming that something was off, but he didn't.

There'd be a time and place for that, and this wasn't it.

Harry looked over her head and out into the deluge, expression drawing into a thin, firm line. "I'll be fine," he said. "I'm assuming you know where you're going?"

She nodded, her choppy hair still writhing with a life of its own in the torrent. "Yes, we have a safe house just over that ridge. We should be free of most of the ill effects there."

He wanted to ask why in the hell there was a safe house, who the hell _we_ was, and what the hell she meant by 'ill effects', but there wasn't time.

Behind his back Harry felt the building he leaned against shudder, as if an earthquake were coming.

And then Sara's radio ignited to life.

" _It broke! I repeat the first dam broke!"_

Harry might not know what the hell the dam was, but that didn't sound good.

And it wasn't.

Sara's eyes widened, her head whipping around to look East-

Harry's followed hers.

At the far end of the clinic's unused parking lot – it clearly a Muggle building before the wizards had taken it over – was a U-shaped gulley in the landscape. Dark, brown mud and water rushed down that gulley, large chunks of brown mud tumbling end-over-end, breaking apart and sending branches, twigs, and pieces of what were now scrap metal airborne.

The flash flood slammed into the clinic's glowing neon sign with a crushing crack, snapping the pole in half like it was a mere toothpick.

Harry reacted. He reacted before he'd even registered what he saw. He grabbed onto Sara's coat, shoving her away from what was left of the clinic and barreling out into the storm. Harry hauled her with him. Instantly the full force of Hurricane Mitch slammed against him, and it drove him back. His boots slipped and slid in the mud underfoot, Harry trying to maintain his balance while keeping a firm hold of Sara and failing.

The ground shook underfoot, making it worse.

Sara shouted something into the wind, a spell lancing out and striking his feet.

His boots didn't stop skidding, but they gained traction.

"Sticking charm!" she shouted into his ear.

Harry would have nodded, but he was too busy running.

The force of the wind was like a concussive blast. It exploded around them. Pressure built inside his eardrums to intolerable proportions, even the sound of his own shouting muffled as he shouted at Sara to fucking move faster.

Water rolled across the ground all around them, flying over it like fast moving mist. It assaulted their ankles, and that was just spray from the thick rain. That wasn't even the flood.

The flood that was right behind them.

"This way!"

He didn't ask questions. His feet pounded against the earth, running for quite literally his life.

Underfoot the ground _shook_. The flood was approaching, and it was approaching fast, barely three hundred meters off.

There wasn't enough time.

His lungs burned.

He saw the flying twig a second before it hit. His wand snapped up and out, his shield charm knocking it out of the way a mere meter from Sara's face. If she flinched he didn't see it. It was as if near decapitations were normal for her. But he felt the physical impact reverberate up his arm, his recently healed wound screaming.

And now he knew why Kingsley flouted the benefits of ambidexterity in spell casting.

The water barreled towards them, the husk of an old automobile swept up and tumbling end-over-rusted-end, and they ran. She led; he shielded. And for the next minute that was what they did, the flood closing the gap swifter than he'd have thought possible.

The roar was akin to a runaway train, hell bent on mowing them down.

Somehow, by some twisted combination of sheer luck and adrenaline, they made it to that slippery hillside seconds before the flash flood hit.

It was like a freight train – loud and powerful and deadly. Harry launched himself up, throwing himself besides Sara, water licking his feet before he landed on the hill-turned-waterfall. He lay on his stomach, winded, breathing hard as water poured down into his face, but he didn't move. He didn't dare, lest he risk slipping backwards into the tumbling mud behind him. It was like water was determined to attack him from every direction and the water pouring down this hill was the lesser of two evils.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sara slip-

His hand shot out and grabbed her, tugging her back up with a loud grunt.

She looked at him gratefully, and he smirked down. "That's four!" he shouted.

"You're still counting?" She looked incredulous.

Harry barked out a laugh and tightened his grip on the back of her coat. "Yes!" He looked from her, to the top of the hill, then back down to her. "Think you can climb it?"

The witch's eyes followed his, then darted down to the ground they'd just run across, the entire area covered in a meter of rushing, tumbling brown water. They'd missed being swept up in it by no more than six feet. "Not seeing another option, so yeah! Besides," she squinted as water poured down, splashing her in the face and making both of their grips tenuous, "the safe house is up there!"

Harry nodded, did his best to dig the toes of his boots physically into the loose dirt he clung to in his best impersonation of a spider, and told her, "You first!"

So Sara began to climb, slowly. She slithered up the steep-angled ledge on her stomach, slithering like a snake, clawing with her hands and feet, and Harry kept a firm grip on her jacket until she was above his head.

Then it was his turn to dig his fingers into the earth, getting water and bits of dirt in his eyes as he began to claw his own way up right behind her. His glasses were at least serving one purpose today – they kept him from getting an entire eyeful of dirt. Sara didn't have that luxury, and by the time they crawled out on top of the crest, rolling over onto their backs, he could see that the whites of her eyes were red and angry, stung from shit getting in them.

Given the number of livestock in the area, some of the dirt probably was literal shit.

Her radio crackled and shouted in her pocket, the voice on the other end frantic.

Harry rather wanted to chuck it down the hill and into the mudflow. But he didn't. Instead he staggered to his knees, water rushing around him. The force of the current kept him just a touch off balance, but Harry managed to grab her again. "Come on!"

She nodded, looking like hell. She shoved her palms down into the thick mud, trying to shove herself up-

With a jerk Harry tugged her the rest of the way, the witch staggering into his chest with a wet slosh. Her fingers curled against the front of his coat as water moved around them, flying across the ground like a violent mist and pouring over the edge of the hill. Sara clutched at him, but managed to point towards an incredibly run-down looking building that had Harry questioning her judgement. "There," she said breathlessly, "that's it."

His head shot to hers, the wizard planting his feet to avoid being blown over and swept downhill. "You're joking? That looks like it'll fall any second, Sara!"

An odd look crossed her face, but before he could place it the witch had grabbed his hand and started tugging. Harry cast a last glance back down the hill, hoping like hell Hermione and Ron had gotten clear in time. The landscape below had flooded. A section a hundred meters across lay immersed beneath the tumbling mud and water, and the clinic-

Well, the clinic walls were still standing, but as Harry watched they began to collapse inwards, tumbling like a child's toy. The falling pieces were overcome by the swift water, instantly disappearing.

They were swept downstream, and when he blinked he lost sight of them.

Sara tugged him until they reached the alleged safe house. It was a glorified shack. Small, easily smashable looking, with too many paint colors on the outside to even count. A wooden piece of plywood covering one of the windows swung dangerously, looking ready to fly off and become airborne at any second.

Sara marched right up to the door and looked at it. She just looked at it. Then, after a long second of nothing happening, she kicked it in frustration and shouted, "Open!"

Harry about fell the fuck over when an eye opened in the center of the door and peered at them.

Sara looked relieved. "Will you just let us in? He's with me."

The brown eye swiveled towards him, and Harry swore to fucking Merlin that it actually narrowed as if suspicious.

Sara kicked the bottom of the door again. "I will paint you piss yellow if you don't let us in. Do you really want that? Again!?"

The door whimpered. Harry swore to fucking Christ that it actually whimpered.

Then something clacked, like a lock being undone, and it swung unceremoniously open.

They stumbled into it with all the grace of two drowned rats, the live 'door' slamming shut behind them.

Instantly it was quiet. Well, it was quiet _er._ The wind stopped, the shaking of the ground seemed to cease. The blasting, pummeling pressure of the storm disappeared entirely. His eardrums felt less ready to explode.

Abruptly every inch of his body stopped being assaulted by mother nature herself, and the absence of pain felt weird.

Harry thudded his shoulders against a wall and stared at her. "You just threatened a door."

Sara hacked up a piece of grass, croaking, "And?"

Behind him the wall growled, and Harry stumbled away from it.

Sara also looked unsteady on her feet, but still managed to send the wall a withering look. "Stop being surly," she said tiredly, flicking her wand and lighting several candles. "He's a guest. You remember what to do with guests, right?"

The door grumbled.

"That's right," Sara wheezed, "you don't growl at them. You don't snarl, and you certainly don't try to eat them."

Harry's head whipped towards her with a blatant look of disbelief. " _Eat_?"

She ignored him. "Well?" she demanded, clearly talking to the edifice. "Or do I have to add some hot pink to your interior-"

A chastised sound instantly erupted from all around them, emanating from every wall.

Harry about choked.

Sara made a relieved sound, the witch leaning forward to try to catch her breath, panting, "There's a good boy."

Harry was pretty positive he'd once been told to not trust anything if he couldn't see where its brain went, so he made sure to stand in the center of the room, as far as he could conceivably get from it.

He took a second to take stock of his situation: he found himself standing in a bland room of reinforced steel, one that apparently liked to growl at and possibly eat unexpected company. There were no windows, merely small metal shutters that looked like rectangular peep holes. A metal contraption hummed in the corner, and a small, white box sat benignly by it. There were scattered cots and blankets, and what looked suspiciously like a shower head hanging from the ceiling. The thing was out in the open, a drain beneath it. It struck Harry that it wasn't curtained off, not even remotely.

Standing there he directed a curious look at her.

Sara just leaned forward onto her knees, and glanced up at him through her mane of soaked and tangled hair. "I told you," she said breathlessly, "it was a safe house."

And then she sank straight down onto her ass, closing her eyes, as her radio crackled with urgent shouts.

"Merlin, I hope someone stocked the fridge this time."

Harry stood there, dripping and unsteady, and flat out stared.

The witch's eyes cracked, peering up at him. "What? Last time there was only tuna left. It was _disgusting._ "

She sounded so serious, so put out that a choked sound escaped him.

The walls around them let out a snort so derisive that it all but answered Sara's question for her.

She whimpered dramatically in response.

And then a silver mist cut straight through the growling doorway, the ethereal form of a Jack Russell Terrier darting in to run circles around his feet, Ron's booming voice shouting through it. _"WE MADE IT TO THAT MUGGLE HOSPITAL, MATE! CROWDED AS BLOODY HELL SO I SLIPPED INTO A STORAGE CLOSET! HERMIONE SAID THE STORMS ONLY GONNA GET WORSE SO TO STAY WHEREVER YOU AND THAT WITCH WOUND UP! LIKE YOU BLOODY WELL NEED TOLD TO NOT SUNBATHE IN THIS SHIT OR SOMETHING! AFTER IT'S OVER WELL MEET AT THE MINISTRY BY THOSE PANT-BITING PLANTS. MEANTIME WE SENT A MESSAGE TO THE HONDURANS THAT WE'RE STUCK HERE WITH THE MUGGLES TILL THIS BLOWS OVER. YOU KNOW HERMIONE WASN'T JOKING! THEY'VE GOT THINGS THAT CUT YOUR CHEST OPEN HERE! HEARD SOMEONE CALL THEM CHEST SPREADERS! SURGE-A-KAL STUFF THEY CLAIM MAKES YA FEEL BETTER! LIKE YA'D FEEL BETTER WITH A HOLE IN YOUR CHEST! BLOODY NUTTERS! THE LOT OF 'EM! BEGINNING TO THINK THESE MUGGLES ARE ALL SADOMASOCHIST TOTURERS THA-WAIT HERMIONE, YOU'RE TAKING THAT THE WRO-"_

And then it cut off.

Harry stood there, swaying and half dead on his feet, and stared. The Jack Russell Terrier gave a final yip, then vanished.

Ron and Hermione were alright.

Relief flooded him.

"Would it be too much," Sara said tiredly from her spot on the floor, "to say it sounds like your friend is in the literal dog house? Or is that too spot on?"

Harry Potter stared.

He looked to where the Jack Russell Terrier had just been.

He let out a choked laugh.

Looking up from her spot on the ground, sitting in a puddle from her own dripping clothing, Sara's lips twitched.

Harry sank to the floor alongside her. After spending so much time outside, the wind pressing him backwards and sending his boots sliding, after having run across mud-slodden dirt with the ground shaking and rumbling beneath his feet from the fast approaching flood, the floor felt oddly stable. It felt stable for the mere fact that it wasn't violently shaking. There was only a dim, dull vibrating whenever a particularly strong gust assaulted the shack from the outside.

Every muscle in him ached; his healed arm burned where Sara had healed it - twice; and for some reason his knee throbbed, rather unreasonably he reckoned, given he didn't recall injuring it.

He heaved a breath and glanced at Sara. She sat alongside him, swaying, looking mildly unsteady. Her long, dark hair hung in her face, dripping around her shoulders, leaving shimmering water droplets across her skin, and when Harry attempted to ask if she was alright she interceded, tiredly groaning something that sounded suspiciously like 'fuck off.'

He chuckled.

Tiredly Sara lifted a hand and flipped him off.

His body gave several dull throbs in response, but he managed to lift up a hand to bat hers down. "There's that sweet girl."

She shot him a withering look. He sniffed in amusement. The word 'asshole' got muttered in his general direction. His mouth twitched just a tad more.

Then, in silent agreement, they both collapsed backwards to stare at the ceiling. It, like the rest of the room, looked metallic, large bolts randomly interspersing it in strange, star shaped patterns. It was almost like looking at some bad artist's metallic rendition of the night sky.

They were soaked, exhausted, trapped in a growling box, with a hurricane raging around them.

And to think, he was supposed to be on vacation.

An eye opened in the ceiling and peered down at them.

Then it _tisked_ at them.

The absurdity finally got to him. Harry couldn't help it: he snorted. Sara did too, which didn't help. Soon they were laughing. Quietly. They were too exhausted for anything else. The sounds eventually died down to dim sniggering, and Harry lay there for lack of anything else to do. The fatigue had hit him, and it had hit him hard.

Sara reached tiredly out to find his arm. Her hand clasped around his forearm as if to reassure herself that he was okay and that she wasn't alone. Through a hole in his coat he felt her bare skin against his; she was like ice.

Harry dragged his hand up and dropped it over hers. The slowly drying mud on his fingers cracked as he clasped them around the top of her hand, that strange tingling tracing across his skin. Harry muttered a spell, "Calor calidum," a wave of warmth washing out of his hand and into hers. The heating charm had been wandless, near effortless, requiring next to no thought. He'd gotten a little too good at them whilst on the run with Hermione, camping in the bitter British cold with nothing more than a thin tent for shelter.

Sara shivered agreeably alongside him, murmuring something that suspiciously sounded like, "Okay…little less of an asshole."

He snorted.

Sara shivered again, it sweeping the length of her body, her form brushing up against his side.

Harry didn't want to reflect on how completely and utterly good that felt, so he let out a breath and answered her earlier question. "Little too on point for my sense of humor," he croaked belatedly, "but you know, maybe you weren't destined to be funny."

The witch shot him a confused look. "What?"

He closed his eyes, tired. "You asked if saying Ron was in the dog house was too 'on point."

Her lips parted in an understanding 'ah,' before making a mildly disgruntled sound. "You have an annoying habit of picking up conversations considerably late, James."

He made a non-committal sound, but didn't deny.

"Take it your sense of humor is more on the dry side?"

He cracked an eye and sent her a sidelong look. She lay there, alongside him, her pale skin looking slightly warmer despite the fact that they both lay soaked in a puddle of their own water. A dim part of his mind acknowledged that he should do something about that, but all he managed was a mildly suspicious, "What would you know about my sense of humor?"

"I did make you laugh," she pointed out, giving her fingers a tiny wiggle, as if pleased with herself. Her far smaller fingers remained trapped beneath his, and instantly those shots of sensation sliding up his flesh got a dozen times worse.

His heart pounded in his throat, Harry hissing a breath as he decided he liked it.

It was a problem.

Everywhere Sara's skin touched against his own – his forearm, his palm - felt alive. A gentle tingling radiated out and up. It was pleasant. It was nice. It sent his fingers curling around her far smaller ones, the wizard no longer content to leave his hand merely atop the back of hers.

Harry was holding her hand, and it sent Sara shivering again. "Shit…" she murmured, Harry echoing the sentiment.

He didn't get why, but his thumb rubbed against the back of her knuckles, moving without his express permission. Sara's fingers tightened, clutching onto his forearm, and it was all he could do to not visibly shudder.

Hell…

Unfortunately the witch was under the impression that she was funny, and he couldn't have that. "Plausible deniability," he muttered as he lay there. "If I don't admit to laughing, you can't prove it."

He could practically hear the quiet smile in her voice. "That's not what plausible deniability means."

"Sure it does."

Sara laughed softly. "If you're going to be a big, bad Auror, you ought to learn legal terms. It'll help you read the white collar case reports better."

"Pretty sure white collar is what the MLE is for." He had no desire to sort through accounting paperwork to see if some back alley Knockturn shop had cheated on their taxes to the Wizengamot.

Sara shot him a questioning look.

"Magical Law Enforcement," he automatically explained. "In England they handle the lesser crimes. Aurors take the more…" he searched for the right term, "dark stuff."

Her eyes flickered across his for a moment, and Harry licked his lips. "Dark stuff?" she asked. "Memorized the Auror recruiting handbook, didn't you?"

"Well would you have preferred I detail out the increasingly creative ways dark wizards have tried to remove and rearrange my internal organs? Because really, they're getting inventive. Might be here awhile."

The girl bit down on her lip and rolled her eyes, sliding her attention back to the ceiling. The eye had had the decency to close. "Ah," she observed, "so you're one of those brash, daring sorts."

"Guilty as charged."

"Mmm, I'm sure."

This…it was oddly pleasant. Hell, it was downright enjoyable.

Minus the puddle. The puddle was cold as hell.

Once again Sara shivered agreeably besides him, and this time it was her hand that flipped so that her fingers could tighten around his.

Harry's heart pounded hard. The contact…he liked it, and without a thought he linked his fingers between hers, lacing them together.

For a moment he didn't know what to say.

"So," he finally ventured, "how many of those eyes," he waved his free hand in the general direction of the ceiling, "exactly are there?" He preferred to know when he was being watched. That type of paranoia was something he could focus on. That was sanity. That was normal. Because laying on the ground, holding hands with a witch he'd just met, enjoying every second of it, wasn't.

Sara plastered on a knowing smile, glancing to him. "What's the matter, James? Not into voyeurism?"

He met her eyes steadily. "Could get into it," he replied, far too casually. "Depends on who's doing the watching."

Sara gnawed on her lower lip. "So it's all about who's watching for you, is that it?" She paused, wrinkling her nose in deep thought. "Strange turn on, James. For me it'd be more about what I was doing and who it was with. You know…what was so fun it made a stranger want to pull up a ringside seat to spectate?"

Harry's mouth went curiously dry. "That so?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I actually would."

Underneath her mud-streaked hair, Sara's eyes sparkled.

For a brief, insane moment he questioned just what the hell he was doing.

He also didn't want to reflect on that too long. The twist in his stomach, the surge in his chest, the curious lack of air in his lungs…

It was distracting. He didn't _know_ her.

He closed his eyes. "Just tell me one thing," he requested. "This pet shack of yours…it won't actually eat us, will it?"

"That depends."

"On?"

"Whether or not you've got spray paint on you."

Harry rolled his head on the ground to eye her suspiciously, Sara's head mirroring the motion. The difference was her eyes danced with mirth.

Now it was his turn to growl.

Her lips twitched dangerously. "Don't worry James. He's been a good boy as of late. He's even cut back on eating trespassers indiscriminately. Now he strictly sticks to a vandalizer-only diet. Graffiti artists are his preferred treat though." Blue danced with brown, looking like two paints had been indiscriminately mixed where irises ought to be.

The radio crackled.

His gaze darted down to Sara's hip, the radio concealed within her pocket, and with a tired sigh Sara gave his fingers a squeeze, withdrawing her hand with considerable reluctance. Harry's stomach dropped as her fingers slid out from between his.

Then the damnable witch squirmed on the ground, brushing up against him as she refused to sit up, trying to unearth the radio from her soaked clothing. Soaked clothing that was sticking to her rather tightly.

It made him want to rip them off her.

What the _fuck_ was he doing?

Harry snagged his wand and flicked a drying spell out – a moment of sanity – and a burst of hot air flew out to circle her, sending her hair billowing violently around her face. She looked startled, but she shivered agreeably. "Any chance you come pocket sized?" she murmured. "You're useful."

"Am I? Could have sworn you'd called me an asshole a half dozen times already…"

"Think of it as a pet name."

He thudded his wand down on his chest and eyed her with a slight scowl. "Using me for my spell work, I see how it is."

"Well you haven't let me use you for anything else yet," she mused, "but I imagine that'd be just a fringe benefit once we get started, don't you?"

From his spot sprawled on the floor both of his eyebrows shot straight up. "Yet?"

The radio crackled, but neither moved. They lay there together, not saying a damn word.

Sara looked at him with that peculiar expression for just a second too long.

Then she looked away.

Abruptly Sara sat up.

This left Harry to stare at the spot on the floor where she'd just been. It was empty, wet droplets left behind gleamed on the metal surface. He felt strangely alone.

He gave a dry swallow, then looked at her. She sat, the handheld radio clutched tight between her fingers, rather like a child clinging to a security blanket.

"Clutch that any harder," he remarked, "and you'll break it."

Sara made a quiet, half-humored sound, but she didn't look at him. Her eyes remained fixed sightlessly on the wall, almost dead.

Something in her had changed. Abruptly.

It forced him to look at her, to really _look_. Sara sat, her knees bent up and drawn towards her chest. She held the radio in one hand, her wand in the other. The pale colored wood dangled carelessly from between her fingers, her arms thrown carelessly over her knees. She looked almost relaxed, but there was something false about it. Harry's eyes traveled lower, searching her form...

And then he saw it.

Her jeans were torn, just enough to reveal a length of creamy, pale skin. Her calf. And her calf looked toned, taut, sexy as hell, but ultimately he knew what it meant.

Sara was tense.

It set him on edge.

She looked ready to stand up and run.

Once more he was reminded that he didn't know her.

It occurred to him only then that she had begun speaking into the radio.

"…myself and the wizard I picked up are with Wally," she was saying. The walls let out a content sound, Sara's eyes drifting around the room with a tired smile. "I think he was lonely. You ought to make an effort to come visit him more. Perhaps restock this cursed fridge occasionally? The food selection is abysmal."

The accented voice was almost snappish. _"I thought you said the village was clear? How did you miss someone? And for the love of Merlin end your transmissions with over. Over."_

It took her several seconds to react, as if her emotions were on a delay, but when she did a slight scowl formed on her face.

Then, rather deliberately, Sara hit the button on the side of the unit, using just a bit more force than necessary. "I didn't miss anyone," she said calmly. "The Honduran Ministry was short staffed, so they sent some visiting Aurors to make sure everyone at the clinic was okay. They walked in after I'd already cleared the area. Twice."

Static fizzling emitted from the speaker. _"THEY? Over."_

Nothing about this conversation screamed 'straight and narrow.'

Sara drummed her fingers on the side of the unit. "Yes. There were three Aurors." She glanced towards Harry as if seeking confirmation and he gave a tight nod, unable to do anything else. "The other two headed towards the Muggle clinic. Myself and James didn't make it out in time on account of the clinic roof politely trying to crush us. We're okay, so we're just going to stay here with Wally until it all dies down." She paused. "Over."

Sara glanced over at him, Harry merely mouthing 'Wally?' at her.

She shrugged. "He's sentient. Metal edifice or not, figured that meant he needed a name."

Wally, the safe house, hummed in agreement.

Fuck, she'd named the thing. It was almost endearing.

The voice from the radio buzzed out. _"So, you're safe…with an Auror? Over."_

Harry couldn't help but notice the skepticism when they'd said the word 'safe.'

Nor how they'd practically spat the word 'Auror.'

Sara glanced at him surreptitiously and his green gaze was there to meet it. They shared a quick look, Sara rolling her eyes before deigning to respond to the person on the other end of the radio.

She pressed down on the button, words deprecating as fuck. "Yes I'm safe. Assuming he doesn't take offense to the fridge being poorly stocked by you lot or your unbelievably cheery mood, Rolando. Over."

The radio went silent, as if the person on the other end was considering their next words carefully. With a groan Harry shoved his hands against the oddly warm floor – a built in warming charm perhaps? – and sat up alongside her. They were so close his shoulder brushed against hers. Sara's entire form shuddered involuntarily, and if he were honest his did too.

Harry studied her carefully.

Kingsley had harped at them for a week about micro-expressions. They were innate responses betrayed on a subject's face when the primitive part of their brain responded appropriately, such as with fear or unease, while the more rational and evolved part of their brain attempted to conceal that initial knee-jerk reaction. As Kingsley had put it, emotional responses were a bitch, and something on a person's face would always betray them.

Oddly Harry had proven adept at spotting them, but right now there was something unreadable in her expression, something he couldn't quite identify, and that alone spoke volumes.

It set him even more on edge.

Something was incredibly off about all of this. Something was wrong. Something wasn't right, and fuck if he knew what.

He mentally ran over the facts.

He was in Honduras, yet this girl spoke flawless English. Her tone held a subtle trace of a British-esque accent, possibly French, yet he'd never seen her at Hogwarts. While he admittedly hadn't been the most observant outside of Gryffindor House or tracking Malfoy and his Slytherin cronies – Voldemort's ass had kept him busy - Harry was certain he'd have at least recognized her. He didn't; though she still seemed oddly familiar and that bothered him.

Perhaps she had visited. Perhaps she was visiting here, just like he was.

But if she worked for the British Ministry he'd know her. He was certain. If being on the run for a year had taught him anything, it was to know your enemy, and after the last hostile Ministry takeover he had made certain to memorize every face in the Ministry rolodex, because you could never be too sure about who might turn on you in the future.

And then there was the radio; the voice on the other end was thickly accented, undoubtedly a native Spanish speaker. So what were they doing?

None of this made sense.

It didn't help that he wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch her again.

He opened his mouth to ask, but was interrupted when the radio crackled.

" _Unit 1, are you a go? Over."_

It was as if the person on the other end of the line had decided further conversation was a bad idea.

Any light left in Sara's eyes vanished. She looked away from him, rather pointedly averting her face. The red light on the radio blinked, reflecting off the remaining puddle on the metallic floor. A silent reminder that they were not alone, that someone else was out there, listening, and knew where they were.

It wasn't comforting.

Harry felt a cold chill creep up his spine.

" _Unit 1? Are you there? Over,"_ the voice repeated.

Harry practically watched the tension seep back through Sara's shoulders.

He knew her; he was certain of it. He just didn't know how.

The radio crackled to life. _"Yes, sorry. Unit 1 is a go. Degree of certainty is eighty percent. Over."_

Sara sat there and said nothing, but Harry didn't miss the subtle tightening her fingers had done on her wand. And this…

It had gone on long enough.

"Sara," he said, "go for what?"

His tone was clipped, serious.

" _Copy that Unit 1. Unit 2, are you a go? Over._ "

Again, the radio fell preternaturally silent. Harry had enough experience with interrogation at this point to know pressing did more harm than good for getting witnesses and criminals to talk. Problem was he didn't know which Sara was.

He hoped neither, though he had a suspicion, unease curling through him.

That warm, pleasant feeling he'd had evaporated as if it'd never existed.

The radio transmissions continued.

" _Unit 2 is a go. Degree of certainty is eighty percent. Over."_

" _Copy that Unit 2. Unit 3, are you a go? Over."_

Silence lapsed. The eye in the ceiling opened lazily, then shut. The radio remained quiet.

"Eighty percent?" he asked.

Harry watched as she wet her lips, and for a moment he thought she wouldn't answer.

But then she did.

"Eighty percent of homes and buildings were checked," she said quietly. Her eyes remained worriedly glued to the radio, words murmured in quiet explication, "We're good at what we do."

"And what exactly is that?"

She said nothing. She simply sat, still as a statue.

"Sara?" he prompted. "Tell me."

" _Unit 3, I repeat, are you a go? Over."_

This time that voice on the other end of the line had sounded nervous.

Sara's eyes had darted to the small speaker, something brazenly and openly worried on her features. Harry sat with her, listening to radio static. It crackled, no response.

Sara dragged her hands over her face, looking suddenly drained. Nothing came through the radio for several minutes. Incrementally it would crackle, that first voice asking Unit 3 to respond, hearing nothing. Finally…

" _Unit 3 is unresponsive. We proceed. Unit 4, are you a go? Over."_

Harry watched carefully as her head darted up, the witch staring at the radio with a slightly betrayed look.

" _Unit 4 is a go. Degree of certainty is a ninety five percent._ "

" _Copy that Unit 4. Excellent work. You need to say over at the end of a transmission. Over._ "

Sara sprung to life. She slammed her fingers around the buttons so hard Harry was surprised they didn't break. "Unit 3 _isn't_ a go. We can't proceed with anything until we hear from them!" She paused, then snapped, "And bloody well over!"

" _Unit 7 you are breaking protocol. Standby_. _Over."_

Her lips fell apart, a sputtering sound emitted.

She slammed down on the button again. "No I will not very well stand by. We can't proceed until we know that everyone is alright. Over."

A pause.

Then crackling and a resigned sounding voice. _"Unit 7, Unit 3's transmitter may have went dead. They may very well be in a safe zone. They know where to go. It wouldn't be the first time a transmitter broke in the field. We proceed as planned. Over."_

Sara stared blankly at the radio in her hand, and this time when she pushed down on the button it was with far less enthusiasm. Harry listened to it crackling, Sara sitting there for a moment with the button pointedly held down, the witch impeding communications from everyone else for a moment as she occupied the line with utter silence. Finally…

She let her finger release the button, saying nothing.

Harry looked at her, his eyebrows knitting into a firm line. He didn't know what this was, but needed to find out. "Sara, fun as this is," he ground tersely, "you need to explain what that's about."

She imperceptively stiffened, and so did he.

"I mean it, Sara."

He watched as the contradictory witch stared straight ahead, and he had the distinct feeling that she wasn't really seeing much of anything. Unit 5 checked in, and then Unit 6 failed to. He waited, albeit impatiently.

Unit 6 failed to check in a second, and then a third time.

Sara's jaw set, her lips drawing into a thin line, her fingers tightening around her wand and the radio. Her hands shook ever-so-slightly, and Harry waited until the expected transmission came.

" _Unit 6 is unresponsive. We proceed. Unit 7, are you a go? Over."_

Harry's gaze remained hard, fixated upon Sara's profile, and he waited to see what she would do. He already knew she was Unit 7 from her previous scolding.

Ultimately she closed her eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Wally," she all but whispered, and Harry watched in fascination as one of the high, rectangular metal shutters slid obediently open.

It exposed the inner shack to the storm's wrath.

The wind roared. Instantly. It rushed inside with a billowing howl. Everything that wasn't nailed down scattered at the storm's onslaught. Sara's hair whipped around her head like Medusa's snakes, but other than that the witch didn't move. She sat there, as if resigned. Hell, she didn't even look up.

A piece of grass flew in and struck him across the face, slicing his cheek and drawing a thin line of blood down it.

With an oath he threw up a shield charm, a loud _hum_ rising around them. Though the hum wasn't from his spell.

It took him a second to realize what that hum actually was.

The metallic interior of the shack was like a tuning rod, and it amplified the sound of the wind rifling through it. The entire room hummed, thrummed, the sound high pitched and hollow all at once. It reminded Harry of the noise Hermione created whenever she ran her finger in circles over the rim of one of her wine glasses. Only difference was thatsound was pleasant, and this sound was painfully loud.

It physically hurt his ears.

Wally whimpered, Harry winced, but Sara did neither. She simply lifted her wand, her hair flying around her face like an ethereal nymph, the witch calmly articulating two words: "Homenum revelio regio."

The spell shot out, whipping straight towards the open rectangular shutter. It flew out into the deluge, and two minutes later it returned, flying back through the tiny opening, the light emitting from it green and not blue.

Harry knew what that meant. It meant no humans had been detected. No living ones, at any rate.

Sara pressed the button down with a downtrodden sigh and practically shouted into the radio. "Unit 7 is a go! Degree of certainty unknown due to flooding hitting our area first. Would assume in the eighties! Over!"

Harry didn't hear the response. He just glanced towards the shutter as it slammed noisily shut, Sara jumping, the wind and voluminous noise abruptly cut off.

The sudden contrast was preternatural.

Besides him he could hear Sara's tense breathing. The radio now hung freely from between her fingers, the brunette barely holding onto it by its antennae. She stared numbly at the wall, her hair tangled artfully around her face.

Looking at her you'd never know that she'd just been screaming into a handheld unit.

Dread slid through his veins. "Sara, what the hell was that abo-"

"I can tell you what we're doing," she interrupted, anticipating him, "but I'm not sure you're going to like it."

His brows knitted in a deep frown, and his gut tightened. "That depends," he finally said, "on if it's illegal."

She let out an uneasy laugh. "Oh, it's definitely illegal."

A cold stone dropped into his stomach.

The radio crackled again, unit 8 checking in.

Sara offered nothing more.

They sat there together, side-by-side, and every instinct he had told him she was a criminal, just like every instinct told him to grab her hand again. His throat and chest tensed. "Sara?"

The small, red light indicating power on the radio unit blinked, reflecting off a small puddle. Sara remained quiet, gnawing on her lip. She seemed to be thinking over her next words carefully.

"James," she murmured, haunted, "that's a category 5 hurricane outside. Do you have any idea what that means?"

"Depends," he said carefully, "do I look like a meteorologist to you?"

Sara's incredible eyes flitted to him for the briefest of seconds. She studied him, her expression guarded and eyes clouded. "Perhaps…I don't know you. For all I know about you James, you could be a hobbyist and dally in storm chasing on weekends."

He felt his jaw stiffen. "Reckon I've had enough excitement in life. Don't need to add any by chasing nature when she's gone and gotten into a pissed off mood."

The witch's lips twitched slightly, but Harry's didn't. All the instincts he'd tried so hard to ignore, to keep at bay, rose back up with a vengeance.

He didn't trust easy; he never had. The Dursleys had seen to that, and Dumbledore had been nipping at their heels, priming him like a lamb for slaughter. That was without mentioning the utter mind-fuck being hunted by a dark lord, Death Eater cronies, venomous snakes, dementors, _Ginny_ , and what seemed like every-damn-witch in Great Britain had done on him.

He kept his voice calm, controlled, but there was a tight edge to it. "Get to the point, Sara."

If it bothered her she didn't react. She simply sighed, dragging her hands through her hair as if to get it out of her eyes. "A lot of people are going to die, James. Mostly Muggles. I don't know if that means anything to you, but it does to me and to everyone on the other end of this," she wiggled the radio, "frequency."

Harry's gaze shot from her, to the radio, and back. "Sounds accurate…"

" _Unit nine is a go. Degree of certainty is ninety five. Over."_

Sara said nothing, only static crackling through the radio's line. Inside his chest he felt a rising tension, not unsimilar to what he felt before raids with Kingsley. They'd systematically tracked down and hunted Death Eater dens since June. Not all had died or been captured in the Battle of Hogwarts; some had escaped. That meant it'd fallen to them, the survivors, to deal with them.

And deal with them they did, with extreme prejudice.

The moments before a raid were always adrenaline-charged. And right now, sitting on the metal floor of the shack, his elbow a mere centimeter away from Sara's, he felt that same crackling tension slide through him.

Whatever Sara said next…he didn't want it to be something he had to arrest her for.

He had a feeling he'd have to.

She'd said it was illegal.

_Fuck._

Harry looked at her, and she looked right back. The radio static continued to crackle, the white noise an eerie backdrop to the wind's wicked onslaught outside, and every bit of authority he had as an Auror, trainee or not, came out in his voice. "Sara, tell me."

The black rings around her irises darkened. "You're an Auror, James. You sure you want to know?"

"Does it look like I have anything better to do?"

"Oh?" she mimed surprise. "No wild social card coming out tonight?"

"What about," he bit, "my ass got dumped and I'm on a forced vacation gave it away?"

She tilted her head to better look at him, her long, dark hair tumbling distractingly around her shoulders. It was rich and brown and somehow warm. "Dumped? Don't recall you mentioning that part."

"Not exactly prone to providing a dossier on myself to every person I meet."

"True." Her eyes sparkled hesitantly. "So you're single. Remind me to hit on you if you don't arrest me."

He grit his teeth, and pulled his eyes away from her hair. "No promises."

Sara was quiet for a moment. "On arresting me or saying yes to a drink?"

"Both."

He didn't know who was more surprised by that admission: him or her. His heart thumped in his chest and they sat there quietly. The rain pattered against the roof, pounding down.

Too bad it wasn't a relaxing sound.

Leave it to him to finally run into a witch that didn't know him, that didn't swoon because he was the Boy-Who-Fucking-Lived-While-Everyone-Else-Died, only to find out he had to send her to mother-fucking-Azkaban.

Sara looked as if she could read his mind. "I'm not going to let you arrest me, James."

He scoffed, the sound damn derisive, bitter. "Wouldn't expect you to."

"But you still want to know what's going on?" Her eyes narrowed. "Even if knowing it would put you at conflict with your job?"

Part of him that sounded like Ron screamed 'no.' It screamed at him to just wait this the hell out and then take her for that damn drink. This wasn't his country. This wasn't his jurisdiction.

But he couldn't let it go.

He looked her dead in the eye, words firm and solid. "Yes."

Sara closed her eyes and sighed.

"Sara?"

It looked like she was thinking, weighing options.

Finally she opened her eyes and fixed him with a firm, steady look. She'd obviously come to a decision. And when she finally spoke Harry didn't have to ask what it was.

"James," she murmured, "this entire region is surrounded by hills and inactive volcanoes, and for some asinine reason the villages are all built at the bases of them." She wrinkled her nose, seemingly bothered. "It's not a matter of if _,_ but of when and where a landslide or flash flood will happen. People _will_ die. It's just a question of how many. We try to mitigate that. We can't stop the landslides or the floods. We'd be foolish to try. The rainfall is simply too heavy, but we can build temporary dams and levies. We find natural pockets in the landscape and create temporary lakes. We funnel the excess water and mud into them. They're not permanent, but they buy us time to get good people out of the way so they don't die when the things finally give." She relayed it all flatly, emotionlessly.

Harry released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "So that's what you meant about the buildings?" He nodded towards the radio unit, abandoned on the floor. "They're in flood zones and the teams are clearing them before the temporary dams break."

Her teeth clamped down upon her lower lip, but she gave a slight nod. "We do. We divide the areas into quadrants and small teams search them. Homenum revelio charms help, but spell work only goes so far. We do our best to make sure everyone is somewhere…safe."

The hair on the back of his neck bristled. Something about the way she'd said the word _safe_... "You're leaving something out."

"The dams…we're not simply stopping water and mud from going everything, James." His pulse thundered within his ears, and Sara's voice grew cool, cautious. "The damns allow us to redirect the waters, redirect the fallout to the least populated areas, where there'd statistically be the least damage. The fewest deaths."

Harry's eyes locked with hers. "So far I'm not hearing anything illegal."

"It is when the least populated areas are wizarding ones, and we're using magic in Muggle areas to change the path of the flooding, redirecting it all straight through the magical villages."

And there it was.

Harry's eyes darkened. His mind jumped to the mudflow outside, the one that'd almost killed them. Hermione had been so absolutely certain they were safe, yet Sara had been equally self-assured that they were not.

Sara had known. She'd known a flash food was coming, because she'd designed it to.

"The flood…you caused it," he said flatly.

She didn't deny. She didn't deflect. She wet her lips, words a soft admission: "Yes."

He stared. He stared because that was all he could do. The people she could have harmed…

His voice vibrated with barely suppressed anger. "How?"

She flinched, but did not back down. "I already told you. We build dams and levies before the storm even hits. It protects the more populated areas and the ones least able to defend themselves. Those are almost always where the non-majs live. Then-"

He cut her off. "So that's what you meant, earlier, at the clinic, when you said the topography could change. You weren't talking about out of date city plans. You were talking about what you did. The clinic would have been safe if you hadn't interfered."

"Yes."

He could hear his pulse in his ears. "You're breaking the Statue of Secrecy."

"Not unless we have to."

Harry didn't yell, but his voice burst lowly, dangerously out of him. "How can you justify-"

"Wizards can rebuild quicker than Muggles," she interrupted calmly. "We simply redirect and concentrate the flooding into those wizarding areas, James. We always, _always_ check to make sure no one is in any of the zones we do this to. But think about it-"

"I'd dare say you're the one who's not thinking," he snapped, voice a cold note of steel.

"James…" She lifted a hand and placed it on his arm.

He jerked it away, a feat, given how close they were sitting. Her hand hovered, frozen in place where his arm had just been for a brief second, before falling. She looked momentarily stricken, before that uncannily familiar mask fell back into place.

It was icily familiar; he didn't know why.

Harry watched as her lips drew into a determined line. "Don't tell me you're pissed because we're saving Muggles."

"I'm pissed because you're terrorists."

Her eyes flashed, the vibrant blues growing dark. "Don't you _dare_ compare us-"

"Why not?" he demanded. "Because from what it sounds like you've been playing God. Deciding who lives and who dies."

Every centimeter of her smooth face grew impassive, cold. "What do you think our teams are for, James? Fun? We divide the area into grids and systematically check to make sure they've been evacuated. No one has ever died from us doing this."

"Yet," he said. "No one has ever died _yet_."

She said nothing, a blazing fire in her eyes.

It infuriated him.

"Call me dumb," he pressed, "but don't recall those certainty percentages you lot called out over that radio being a hundred percent either."

"What would you prefer we do, James? Lie? Claim we've searched every building from top to bottom?" She shook her head. "That's impossible."

His teeth gritted. "Damn right it is. You're not omnipresent, Sara, so you might have missed someone."

She didn't deny that either. "You're right. We could have. But better one or two people die than hundreds. Surely you can grasp the concept of sacrificing one to save many?"

Had she stabbed him through the chest he may have reacted less. A white hot surge of anger shot through him. Yes, he grasped that concept. He grasped that concept damn well, better than anyone, better than any wizard alive in Great Britain, which she obviously was well aware of given she'd just used that against him.

Nothing like marching straight into the Forbidden Forest and taking a killing curse straight to the chest to drive that lesson home.

She had a British accent…

His voice vibrated dangerously. "So…you do know me."

Her eyes narrowed, suspicious and calculating. "No." Something peculiar was in the way she said it. "No James, I don't know you. But I know your type."

"Oh?" He could have laughed. "And what exactly is my type?"

"Noble. Self-sacrificing. Hero to a fault," she replied without missing a beat.

Being noble was typically considered a good trait, but the way Sara said it…it was almost contemptuous. "You say it like it's a bad thing."

She looked at him pityingly. "Sometimes it is."

His mind flashed back to Ginny at the end of 6th year, at Dumbledore's funeral, when he'd broken things off with her. She'd asked if it were for some stupidly noble reason. Then a month ago, when she'd left him for the American Quidditch league, when he'd suggested a break to spare her the problems of a long distance relationship, she'd accused him of the same thing.

His stomach clenched.

"James…" Sara's voice was quiet, drawing him back to the present.

His gaze went to hers. She'd called him noble, self-sacrificing, and just like Ginny she'd made it sound like a bad thing.

"You think you know my type…" he finally repeated.

She didn't so much as blink. "Yes."

"And how exactly did you arrive at that conclusion?"

A dark eyebrow rose, as if surprised. "You're still here. You're obviously brave enough to get yourself killed for a complete stranger. The only people who'd risk hanging around in a storm like this are either incredibly noble or idiotically stupid, and you didn't strike me as a doddering fool."

He went rigid. His jaw set, eyes furrowed in an angered set while his pulse thundered in his ears.

Sara didn't cower. At some point she'd turned around on the floor to face him, her body artfully twisted. Her jacket was still unzipped, the shirt beneath torn and ripped, the edges ragged. He breathed hard and didn't look.

She noticed.

"What's the matter, James?" she said icily. "Afraid to ogle me now that you know what I do for fun?"

His expression contorted in irritation, but he kept his eyes determinedly up. "You consider playing Russian roulette with people's lives fun?"

The scorching heat in her eyes engulfed him like a wall of fire. "No, James. But I admit, I do take a certain satisfaction in knowing that I'm out there helping people, while the rest of our kind and the other Ministry lackeys stand around like assholes, content to let defenseless Muggles die."

He bristled. "We're not content _-_ "

"Oh? Could have sworn the last wizarding war begs to differ with you on that."

He went silent. His teeth ground together. He couldn't argue that. He'd lived it.

But she was familiar with the war in Britain, which meant she'd lied. She'd lied about not knowing him. She obviously knew who he was. He wasn't being arrogant; it was just fucking _fact._

She tilted her head, mock curious, her hair spilling down from where it had been tucked behind her shoulders. "Refresh my memory James…could have sworn there was even this crazy legislation out there that allowed multiple Ministries to not just persecute, but to flat out hunt down and imprison Muggle-borns as if they were criminals. And that's what they did to the people born with magic. Now imagine how those same people must feel about _actual_ Muggles." She spoke determinedly, with conviction. "They allowed the non-majs to be tortured, murdered without fear of reprisal, and most of the magical community just sat back and let it happen. It's little wonder they're all so happy and content to let more Muggles die. Cleanses the gene pool, lessens the overall population, gets rid of the undesirables, because no one will miss an inferior species."

She spoke plainly, bitterly, no trace of apology in her voice.

He wanted to physically lash out. "If you're expecting me to defend the shit the Ministry did you'll be waiting awhile."

"I don't expect that."

"Then what? Because you damn well seem to think we're all like that."

"I never said you were."

He practically snarled, "It was implied."

Sara's palms had fallen flat against the unnaturally warm floor, her body still twisted to face him. She looked calm, far too calm for someone in her current position – facing potential arrest and trapped with a Ministry official – yet the way she looked at him…

It was calculating, like she was trying to figure him out. It was the same look Oliver Wood always had right before a match when he would eye up the other team, right before Madame Hooch's coin toss.

Only hers was icy. Far, far more icy.

Harry wanted to withdraw, to scoot the hell back, away from her, to put some distance there, but he didn't. For some inexplicable reason he didn't. He remained rooted there, within touching distance, his eyes blazing an angry trail across her face.

Sara finally spoke, curious. "So, you're saying you're not like them?"

There was a lot of shit he could say in response to that. _I fucking killed Voldemort_ the most obvious. _I was Undesirable Number One_ and _I'd like to see Umbridge's head on a pike instead of rotting in Azkaban, so what the fuck do you think?_ closely followed.

Ultimately he said, "My best friend's a Muggleborn and I was raised by Muggles." Shit for brain Muggles, but Muggles none-the-less."So what do you think?"

Her eyes studied him closely, the dark leather jacket clinging to her far too tightly for someone who'd been dried off. "So what's your issue with it then? I'd think you'd be happy we were trying to save the non-majs."

The hell of it was she sounded legitimately curious.

"I'm all for saving people, Sara. Not for sending a deadly flood in the direction of a magical community."

"You don't like our methods."

"Damn right I don't. Saving people is great, but what you're describing is by any means necessary, whatever the cost. You're outright _choosing_ who lives and who dies."

To his surprise she didn't argue. Understanding reflected back, her irises both light and dark at the same time. "Do you think you could relax enough for me to explain?"

"Could have sworn," he practically bit, "that's exactly what I've been doing, given you're not already in cuffs."

"Fair enough," she said. "Maybe tamper down on the testosterone long enough to think about it from our view then. These areas we're directing the floods to, regardlessof anything we did, would have been damaged by the storms anywa-"

Harry stopped her there. "Storm _s_?" Emphasis on the 's'. "You mean you've done this more than once?"

She met his gaze unblinkingly. "Yes."

"How fucking often exactly are you doing this?!"

She flinched. It was so quick he almost missed it, but when she spoke her tone was cool, icy. "Any hurricane, any typhoon, any cyclone," she answered. "And to spare you the curiosity, that's not all. We help when there are earthquakes, tornadoes, any kind of bombing or war. I suppose you'd be happy to know we don't do any direct damage to anyone in those instances. We just show up and try to help."

"You're still breaking the statute."

"You're right. I'm training to be a Healer, James. I signed on to save people's lives. _All_ people's lives. Not just those born with magical blood, so forgive me if I can't adopt that blaringly racist mentality that assumes magical methods of healing should only be used on witches and wizards. As if they're the only ones _deserving_ to survive trauma, cancer, chronic disease…"

This went beyond anything he could have imagined.

Harry didn't know what to say. He just stared.

Sara sighed. "Look…James," she ran a hand through her hair, long strands of dark trapped between her fingers, the witch peering beseechingly at him. "For this…the mudflows, landslides and floods are going to happen anyway. Today we're simply holding them at bay with magic. We evacuate the non-majs, and we have teams thoroughly search any magical area that we're planning to redirect the disaster towards. We do our best to make sure all wizards and witches have already been evacuated. If they haven't we force them. And even if we miss someone…" Again, she wet her lips. "I know apparating in these kinds of storms is dangerous, but think about it. Wizards can at least try to portkey or apparate or floo away. Hell, if they're crazy enough they can even try to use a broomstick. Point is _they_ at least have magic. They can use magic to stay safe. If we miss a wizard they might still survive, but a non-maj sure as hell doesn't have that option. That's partof why we're redirecting this disaster the way we are."

Sara spoke with conviction, certainty.

Harry felt his heart thunder.

"We're trying to save lives, James, not end them."

And despite it all, despite the many, _many_ issues he had with it…

He understood it. He grasped the logic. He'd have been a hypocrite not to.

Harry had never wanted anyone to die for him. But ultimately, when the war had begun in full force he hadn't left Ron and Hermione behind. He'd let them risk themselves for him, for their cause, so that even if they died others might live.

It hadn't even been a year since he'd walked into the Forbidden Forest, willing to sacrifice one person – himself – for the many. He grasped the unpleasant truth of the law of numbers. He grasped what Sara meant about endangering only those who had the best shot at surviving.

But just because he understood what Sara was saying didn't mean he had to like it.

It took him a full minute to speak, the radio crackling with static.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Sara."

She studied him with open, honest eyes. "I know."

"You could get killed."

Again she nodded, words quiet, "I know."

"You could get someone else killed."

Her eyes flickered worriedly to the radio, it now laying, abandoned on the floor by her knees. "And I'd have to live with that. I know, James."

"Not to mention the Statute of Secrecy if you're caught."

Her gaze shot up, hopeful. "If?"

Harry went rigid. He had a choice to make.

"What about the poorer wizarding families?" he deflected, thinking of Ron, _Ginny_. "If you destroy the little they have…"

Sara's fingertips flexed lightly against the floor, her spectacular eyes narrowing, as if annoyed. "We don't just abandon them after we destroy their homes, if that's what you're asking."

"So what exactly _do_ you do?"

His own voice had been hard, firm, but Sara didn't take offense. She fidgeted with the walkie-talkie's antennae. "There's a fund," she told. "Our donors have kept it alive, mostly through interest earnings from Gringotts accounts. We use that to help them rebuild. The galleons help replace any items they lose. To be honest, their houses are usually better off after we raze them to the ground and rebuild then they were to start with."

Thinking of the Burrow, Harry couldn't help but think she wasn't too far off.

Sara studied him. "I can't say we offer that same kind of help to pureblood families who were hell bent on wizarding supremacy, though I somehow doubt you'll be too opposed to that." She let her eyes play over his, words questioning, curious. "Am I right, James?"

The way she said it…

She knew him. She fucking had to. Her appeal was too spot on for her to _not_.

"You make it all sound so logical," he muttered, "like it's somehow safe. How do I know it's not all lip service?"

"You don't. There's this thing called trust, James. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

The snort he let out was so derisive the eye in the ceiling actually cracked open, shifting between he and Sara with brazen suspicion.

"Call me a cynic," he said, tone dry as the desert, "but the word 'trusting' doesn't really apply to my world view."

She didn't so much as bat an eye, her incredibly long and dark eyelashes artfully framing her irises as they flickered across his own green ones. Everything in her gaze was calm, calculative, assessing. "No, it really doesn't, does it?" She looked contemplative for the barest of moments. "No wonder we're getting along."

Harry had several comebacks for that, as to exactly why they were getting along, but most involved the state of her shirt and the cleavage he could see. He wisely buried those and kept his mouth shut.

Mostly.

"Well it's either our mutual suspicion," he dryly countered, "or the state of your shirt." His eyes narrowed. "Though I've a feeling you've rather purposefully kept it that way to keep me amendable, haven't you?"

The guilty glint in her eyes answered that for him, a low growl emanating from his chest in genuine annoyance. He wasn't an idiot. He was well aware of the kinds of ploys women used to distract his sex. He may have only ever seriously dated Ginny, but the fact that he'd had a serious girlfriend hadn't exactly stopped eligible witches from throwing themselves at the 'alleged' wizarding world's savior time and time again. It'd never fazed him. He'd already known who he wanted, and he'd had her. But he'd still learned a thing or two about their subtle techniques, and this witch…

This witch was using them, in spades.

Problem was they were working.

The manipulative wench.

The vulnerability, her subtle touches, the to-a-fault honesty, the witch honest when she definitely shouldn't be to play upon his 'saving people thing'...

And then there was that fucking _shirt_.

He'd only ever been with Ginny, and he'd known her for half a decade before he'd even looked her way. He wasn't familiar with the concept of instant attraction. He wasn't comfortable with it. But right now…

He was getting there. Up close and fucking personal.

His heart thudded in his chest.

The witch studied him with a small, sly smile, her eyes flickering down to her unzipped jacket, then back up to his face. "I could zip it back up, if you like?"

He managed a grunt. "Do whatever the hell you want, Sara."

For a second she looked offended, but the look vanished as quick as it'd come, something far more frosty replacing it. "Noted."

He had half a mind to apologize then and there, but didn't. He sat there and tension rippled through him, his magic damn near palpable to anyone near.

And Sara was very, very near.

Her eyes flittered down, towards the radio, the witch gnawing on her lip. "It's not all lip service, you know," she divulged. "We actually want to help."

He grimaced. "Verdicts still out on whether this is help or not."

A small frown furrowed between her eyebrows, but she did not look at him. She kept her eyes carefully averted, trained elsewhere, anywhere but at him. Harry said nothing; he simply watched as she reached out, absently tracing the contours of the radio unit with a solitary finger. "You're right to be suspicious," she admitted, "there's more to it than just wanting to help people survive the storm."

He snorted. "Of course there is."

She looked up, hurt reflecting in her eyes for the briefest of seconds. Her lips parted, then closed, as if wanting to say something, before thinking better of it. Finally…

"Is it really so impossible that other people might be capable of doing something good, albeit in an unorthodox way?"

He considered it, for about thirty seconds. "No." It'd be a bit hypocritical of him to say it was. Hell, his record for the past year included leading a revolution, murder, what might as well have been his own suicide, master-minding a Gringott's break-in, theft of a XXXXX beast and flying it over Muggle London, multiple counts of breaking and entering, theft of personal and Ministry property, and general mass destruction. "No, it's not impossible, but it's pretty unlikely."

Once more she looked at him with that inscrutable expression. "Being so skeptical all the time…it must be lonely."

The pity in her voice stung.

His teeth ground hard enough to tear enamel. "I get by."

The witch continued looking at him for so long that he considered scowling, but he didn't. But only just.

The silence stretched.

It took Sara exactly three minutes to work up the nerve to say anything else. "Look…I don't know how much you know about how things were in wizarding families before the war," she said, "but I grew up in one, and I don't ever want things to go back to how they were."

Finally, something they could agree on. "Grand," he deadpanned, "but what does that have to do with you aiding and abetting Hurricane Mitch?"

"Everything," she said, sounding a little lost. The radio on the floor had grown silent, as if the operator on the other end had all the information they could possibly need. "I told you we're worried about Muggles being overlooked in catastrophes, because they are, but…that's not the whole story."

"Course it isn't."

She shot him a sharp look. "You know you could try being less of an ass."

"Probably, but it'd be a hell of a lot less fun."

She scoffed. "Yes well, keep having that kind of funand any chance you had of seeing me out of this shirt is probably gone."

He inclined an eyebrow. "Probably?"

She shot him another one of those looks only females could master.

He bit back a sharp response of his own, opting for something far more dour. "How about we both just assume that sexual tension or not, it's off the fucking table?"

He felt a jolt in his internal organs. There it was. He'd fucking acknowledged it, and like a good fucking soldier ignored it.

There was not so much as a flicker of emotion on Sara's face. Maybe he'd fucking imagined the whole thing. And yet, as she turned her face, allowing her hair to fall and veil it from view, the candlelight throwing a warm glow across its glossy surface, he could have sworn he heard her scoff 'hypocrite' beneath her breath.

Now it was his turn to fix her with an unreadable look.

"Well since you're so eager to just talk," she said, drawing out the word, "then even you have to admit that most wizards hate non-maj's. They look down on them."

He snorted, studying the thick veil of hair that now represented Sara's face. "And the award for most obvious statement goes to…"

Her eyes shot up to shoot him a scathing look. "My point is just because one dark wizard got taken out doesn't mean dozens, if not hundreds of others exist, eager to take his place."

Well, she didn't have to sell him there. "My overtime pay would agree with that," he remarked.

"Yes well, does that overtime pay cover surveillance of your Wizengamot? Because I'm betting the dark wizards in charge still hold seats."

He felt an icy core dagger through him. "Death Eaters are in prison or on the run."

She shrugged noncommittally. "Perhaps. But I'm sure there are still enough anti-Muggle witches and wizards to make life supremely difficult for Muggleborns if they wanted. Once enough time has passed and the losses and atrocities of war are no longer fresh in everyone's minds, once everyone has stopped hero-worshipping the war heroes, they'll get bold again. They'll feel safe and empowered enough to start back up with their anti-Muggle legislation pieces, their underhanded and manipulative tactics-"

"Like yours?"

She ignored him. "It'll be a domino effect from there. Legislation like that will set the stage for anti-Muggle acceptability amongst wizards again, and the toxicity will leak into the next generation of wizards and witches. Inevitably we'll wind up with another Dark Lord. At best, if we're lucky, we'll have people willing to fight and there'll be another war. At worst, they anti-maj's will take over. It'll be like the holocaust, just of Muggles."

Harry's chest grew uncomfortably tight. "Well damn, don't hold back Sara. Let that optimism shine."

"You're a patronizing ass."

"Can't be that bad," he practically drawled. "You're still talking."

She hissed in irritation, adjusting her position on the floor and brushing her hair out of her eyes. "This pattern's happened before, James, and it'll happen again. And it will keep happening unless something drastic changes."

"Not arguing, but what's your point?"

"My point," she practically snapped, "is that when we destroy wizarding villages wizards are homeless for a while. And while some go to stay with family or friends, others get forced to live amongst the non-majs. That helps, James."

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Does it?" Outside the wind raged, howling against the outer shutters. Inside the abandoned radio unit crackled with white static.

Sara nodded, brushing another lock of hair behind her ear, and for the love of fuck his eyes followed her every movement. "Yes," she articulated. "The only hope we have of getting these old school purists to change is to outnumber them with pro-Muggle supporters. But that's never going to happen if we don't force younger witches and wizards, preferably from _pureblood_ families, to actually interact with the non-majs. So every time we do this, James, _every time_ we spare a Muggle neighborhood instead of a wizarding one we force more and more wizards to interact with non-majs. We force wizards to rely on Muggles. When you're homeless and have nothing left you have no other option. Invariably some wizards wind up with Muggle friends, even romantic partners. It forces our society and theirs to finally intersect, interact. It gets more Muggle blood into our blood lines. That's the way we'll permanently change how the wizarding world thinks. One wizard at a time, one disaster used to our advantage at a time."

She sounded determined, invigorated at the prospect.

Harry's brow creased and creased hard as he thought about it. "So this is all a political ploy to you."

"Partially," she admitted. "If it prevents another war I'd argue it's more than worth it."

"You're assuming it'll actually help."

"We have to start somewhere."

"It's one hell of a long shot."

The shack gave a disturbing shudder, the floor vibrating, and Sara's eyes practically flashed. "People don't respond to rational reasoning, James. You can't change hearts and minds and years of repression with a publicist's pro-Muggle campaign. You can't just walk up to an old school purist and start up a discussion about diminishing gene pools and pureblood inbreeding. They're not ever going to admit that we _need_ Muggles so we don't die out."

An irrational ire rose in him. "So this isn't about saving lives. This isn't about equality for Muggles. It's just self-preservation for the species." Never before had he uttered the word 'species' so sarcastically.

She stared at him like he'd grown a second, then a third head. "My god you're an idiot."

"Call it like I see it."

"You seriously think we'd go to this much trouble if that's all we were worried about?"

"Don't know. As you so kindly pointed out earlier, I don't exactly know you."

"Most of us have dedicated our fortunes and our lives to this. We've had to leave our families behind for their own safety. If that was all we were worried about there are other ways we could politically maneuver, James, _without_ risking all of that." A gust sent the walls rattling, the flames of the candles flickering. The dancing flames were reflected within her irises, her eyes fiery, impassioned.

They were close together, sitting on the metallic floor. It vibrated beneath them, like a low level earthquake. It was the flooding, the low rumbling of churned up earth and debris tumbling end-over-end.

And as they sat there, close enough to fucking _touch_ if he wanted, Harry's gaze raked over hers. Despite the plainness of her face, despite what the fuck she had done and _was_ doing literally while he sat there, unable to do anything about it while he was trapped in the midst of a hurricane, he couldn't look the hell away.

Neither could she, a certain intensity radiating from her.

Harry was acutely conscious of how close they were.

Sara wet her lips, Harry's gaze drawn to the motion, even as she shook her head slowly. "We can't even get children in different houses to get along, James. Adults with long-held beliefs about magical superiority are even worse. So…we give them a little help in the right direction."

A flare rose in him. _Different houses._ Now he was positive: he _did_ know her. But for now…

He shoved that back down. "So you're risking all of this for the long game."

Cerulean and chocolate eyes flickered over his face. "Perhaps, which brings us back to the fact that you don't trust me."

Harry grimaced. He was still processing the new information he'd been given. The concept that there were political factions using natural disasters as a ploy to manipulate the Wizengamot into pro-Muggle stances was a lot to take in.

His silence stretched perhaps a moment too long, and Sara broke it.

"I am curious," she ventured, "if I was lying to you why would I have bothered to admit to any of this at all?"

He'd have been a piss poor Auror if the question hadn't already occurred to him.

"Because you're smart enough to know that I'd already seen enough to arrest you on general suspicion, and I sure as hell would if you hadn't given me a reason not to."

To his utter shock she hummed a sound of agreement, brushing her shoulder-length hair back behind one of her ears. "I suppose this means my recruiting speech wouldn't be completely lost on you then?"

Recruit?

Harry Potter stared at the witch in front of him with what he imagined was a slightly gaping expression.

Despite every logical reason there was for him to charm handcuffs onto her there and then, to report this to Kinsley and the Honduran Ministry, and to spend the next year of his life tracking down the rest of the people on the other end of that radio, he found he abruptly and suddenly didn't want to.

He didn't want to because every instinct he had screamed at him to trust her.

It probably had something to do with her shirt, and that damnable jacket that she still hadn't zipped up.

He was still furious. He was furious with what she was doing, with her methods. He was furious that her very presence, her demeanor got beneath his skin. He was furious that her eyes danced in the fucking firelight. He was furious that he couldn't touch her. He felt sick.

And he still had a decision to make.

_Well shit._

* * *

**_EYHORH_ **

* * *

**Author's Note:** Nauze and Pwrless thank you so much for your help once again! This would not be possible without them as they have let me bounce ideas off them and done their due diligence to pick holes in the potential plot lines and to remind me how Wizengamot is actually spelled. I appreciate you both!


	3. Mitch is a Bitch - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had a choice to make.  
> Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This….this was all wrong.  
> He'd been right. He'd been right to be suspicious of her. He'd been right to think she was hiding something.  
> But she'd been right about one thing: wizards always would look down on Muggles.

**Author's Note:** This chapter is **M rated**. If that is not your cup of tea, you will want to skip that section. Seriously…it's long. That being said, most of the story will not be _this_ type of M rated, but….this particular chapter is. You have been warned…

* * *

**Chapter 3 ~ Mitch is a Bitch – Part 2**

"Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in their looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are."

~ Marcus Zusak

* * *

_He had a choice to make._

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This….this was all wrong.

He'd been right. He'd been right to be suspicious of her. He'd been right to think she was hiding something.

But she'd been right about one thing: wizards always would look down on Muggles.

Harry wasn't a fucking idiot. He'd fought; he'd had an up close and personal first class seat on the Voldemort-driven Muggleborn genocide train.

Wizards would always view them as lesser beings. Wizard would view them as less in need of protection. There would always be those who viewed and used them as play toys, for torture and every conceivable type of cruelty, whenever the fear of getting caught wasn't right in their face.

People like Umbridge. People like the Malfoys.

Yet this witch, and the people she worked with, didn't view them that way.

They were willing to go to prison to protect them.

Despite the war, despite the atrocities and anti-Muggle laws passed by the previous Wizengamot, none of the old order had lost their seats. The old families were still in power, still in control. To believe anything else was to be overly idealistic. He'd heard Hermione harp on and on enough times now to _know_ that.

Sara was right.

She was fucking _right._

How long would it be before another Voldemort rose to power? Before those not in Azkaban stopped pretending that they'd sided against the Death Eaters? That they had sided with he and Kingsley and the now long dead Dumbledore?

How long would it be before they stopped playing nice with the winning side and began to create a new anti-Muggle regime all over again?

He felt his pulse in his ears.

Harry didn't want this. He wanted to track down wizards and fight. With his hands; with his wand. He wanted to obliterate any remnants of Voldemort's reign from the face of the fucking planet. He'd use a scorched earth policy if needed, he didn't care, but that was all he wanted. He wanted to be an Auror and _just_ an Auror.

He wanted a simple life.

But questions like this, questions like what she had brought up…they plagued him, kept him up at night, and this witch…

She was actually doing something about it.

Harry Potter breathed through his nose, cracking his gaze to study the witch before him. She sat there, quiet, her fingers idly tracing patterns on the metallic floor. His eyes followed the path of her arm, sliding down her wrist, following the path her hand took until he stopped at her fingertips.

The surface she traced was practically mirror-like, offering a colorful silhouette of her seated figure.

She was close enough to touch, easily, and Harry…

Harry let his gaze grow unfocused, resting there.

He was acutely aware of Sara, her presence, of the way she glanced up to look at him.

"I need to know," he said without looking up, voice rougher than intended, "what your plan is. What you're intending to do from here?"

This time when he looked up, Sara's blank, inscrutable mask was gone.

In its place was a hesitant, almost hopeful smile.

The tightness in his chest lessened.

Her lips twitched just a smidgeon. "Decided to be less of an ass then?" she asked curiously.

He shot her a glare. "Don't push it."

For all the world, Sara looked as if she didn't care. She tilted her head to better look at him, peering through her veil of tangled hair with a small smile. "Don't push it? Now wherever's the fun in that, James?"

"Be nice," he practically growled, "I'm shifting my entire mental paradigm of right and wrong because of you."

"Oh," she said roguishly, "I doubt it shifted _that_ much."

There it was again. That dagger deep inside that warned him. She knew him. She knew the kinds of things he'd done.

And strangely he didn't care.

Or maybe he did.

A slow broiling bitterness bubbled up within him. He'd liked that she hadn't known him. He'd liked having someone talk to him like he was a normal human being.

But Sara…Sara at least had pretended. She'd pretended she didn't know him when he'd given her a false name back. She'd respected his pathetic attempt at anonymity. She hadn't pressed. She hadn't pushed.

He could live with that.

Hell, he was strangely grateful.

Ultimately he grimaced back. "You'd be surprised…"

Candlelight and shadow caressed her face, her eyes reflecting brilliantly with flame, mirth dancing within them. "Perhaps…but I still did teach you a new word," she pointed out, her cheek dimpling as she bit down on the inside of it.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Sara was clearly suppressing a laugh. "Paradigm," she explained, as if it were obvious. "I had to explain what paradigm means. Surely that counts as being nice?" She tisked. "Really, I'm downright educating you, James. I should be charging."

_James._

Every stiff muscle in his body relaxed.

Marginally.

"You've got a twisted version of being nice."

Her eyes widened in silent mocking. "You must have been a terribly wonderful student."

"I had my moments."

This time she did laugh, and it mixed hauntingly with the howling outside. "Somehow I seriously doubt that."

"Keep it up," he bit threateningly. "Maybe I'll rethink the cuffs."

She made a small sound that was practically sinful. "Hrm…maybe you will get to see me without my shirt after all."

"Fringe perk," he growled, echoing her earlier words, "not my primary motivation."

Her wicked, barely there smile turned mischievous. "Sure it's not."

"It's not."

She shot him a pitying look. "Never said I'd complain if it was."

Harry's stomach jumped. This…

He did not understand this.

But not understanding and not knowing what the hell he wanted were two entirely different things. He knew what he wanted. Her eyes, her unnatural fucking eyes, held his, and irritated or not, Harry was powerless to look away.

Sara took mercy on him. She blinked and broke whatever fucking spell had held his gaze glued to hers. He could suddenly think.

"Rolando-" she started.

"Rolando?" he interjected, sarcastic, gruff. "Damn, already using another bloke's name?"

Her lips twitched. "As if James is your actual name."

"Like Sara's yours?"

She did not answer. That was answer enough.

"Makes sense," he continued, eyes steely, steady as he viewed her, "you don't look like a Sara."

'Sara' didn't waste a moment. She tore her eyes away, speaking as if he hadn't said a word. "We should be ready," she said crisply. "If I know Rolando as well as I think-"

His teeth ground just a bit.

"-then he'll give the order to take out this part of the wizarding village soon."

He took a deep damn breath and met her eyes. "How do you know?"

"It's already flooded," she said. "It's exactly what I would do."

It was cold reminder that she was what she was.

It was efficient. It was ruthless. But it was a decision, a strategic one.

Strangely he understood it.

At the end of the day they weren't talking about saving a single individual's life; they were talking logistics. McGonagall had done that at the Battle of Hogwarts. Pomfrey had, triaging the wounded and dead, during the interlude and after. He had envied none of them.

Sara kept speaking, shaking her head. "That's not going to be good enough to distribute all the runoff. I saw the reservoir earlier and it was considerable. They'll have to flood two or three other sections. At least."

The wind outside howled louder, rattling the wall. Her remarkable eyes slid towards it in a slight glare, as if Wally the Shack were personally responsible for the onslaught rocking him. As if he could somehow prevent his walls from shaking. Harry half wondered if the animated thing would hold up once the storm really got going.

Outside 'Wally' had looked awfully rickety.

Harry frowned thoughtfully. "So all those teams that checked in…you won't flood all the areas that got checked?"

"No need."

"And the wizards that live in the villages you do flood?"

"We've already moved them to various Muggle clinics," she said. "Figured it'd be good for them to see what Muggles have to deal with in these circumstances, when they don't have the benefit of magic."

He snorted, derisive. "And I'm sure you lot waited till the last possible minute so they'd have no other option."

The look she shot him could only be described as 'no shit.' "Don't be daft. Of course we did. Then they can't apparate out in time, and it gives us the added bonus that if something does happen to one of the Muggle-filled clinics, the wizards are already there."

It took him a second to catch her meaning, and then realization daggered through him.

"You're setting them up," he said, half-impressed. "They'd be forced to use magic to protect themselves, thereby protecting the Muggles. They'd legally be able to break the Statute of Secrecy if their lives were in danger."

Sara inclined her head, as if conceding to a worthy chess opponent. "Exactly. Sure they'd send in obliviators, but the non-majs would at least live. I realize it's not much in light of how many dead this storm will cause overall, but…" she shuddered visibly at the prospect, "it's at least something."

And the hell of it was….

She was right.

He stared at her with an intensity he'd rarely felt. "You've thought this through."

"I wouldn't have joined up with these people if I hadn't."

He wanted to ask when she'd 'joined up.'

He wanted to ask how.

Hell, he wanted to ask why.

Ultimately he did none of those things. He didn't want an answer she couldn't come back from.

"So you can promise," he asked, "that you've done everything you can to ensure their safety?"

Sara didn't blink. She didn't bat an eye. She wet her lips for the thousandth time, nodding slowly. "Yes James. I think I can promise that. From us anyway." Her eyes flickered towards one of the storm shutters. "Mitch now…he's another story."

"Yeah well, heard he's a grade A asshole."

She let out a soft laugh. "Mitch is a bitch."

He snorted outright, but was unable to yank his eyes away from hers. Hell, it was becoming a problem for him. And as they sat there, close together on the damn floor, he heard his pulse growing louder in his ears. That rhythmic damn sound. His heart pounded, and pounded hard.

He didn't know her name. She was a criminal. She was part of a _group_ of criminals. Her and this group she was a part of were going to intentfully destroy a wizarding village, multiple villages. They would redirect the power of the storm, break the statute of secrecy, and had set other witches and wizards up to do the same.

He didn't bristle.

He didn't place her under arrest.

He racked his mind for an issue with what she'd told him, and there were many. There were too many to count.

His stomach gave a strange flutter.

The truth was this was a hurricane. He'd been out in it. He'd seen up close and personal how dangerous it could be.

Things would get damaged. Things would get destroyed.

People would die.

A lot of people.

Yet he'd seen her human revealing spell. He'd seen it come back as negative. She'd taken precautions. She'd been thorough. Harry had prided himself on trusting his gut. He always had. It hadn't let him down yet.

And right now it told him she was telling the truth.

She was trying to help. She was doing something based on a gut belief, one that told her that what she was doing may be on the wrong side of the law, but it was right. And fuck…

He of all fucking people could understand that. _Undesirable Number One…_

Another voice, one that sounded eerily like Sirius, pointed out that even if he did want to shoot himself in the foot with this girl, even if he did want to stop it, to stop her, he should know damn well that there was literally nothing he could do for anyone outside of this room right now.

He might be the Man Who Conquered, according to every annoying press that had staked out the Burrow for _weeks_ after the Battle of Hogwarts, but the man who had taken on Voldemort and won was still only one man and he was still a human one.

Which meant he had limitations, much as they pissed him off.

For now he needed to stay right where he was, safe- _ish_ inside this animated and growling shack with Sara. Sara, whose real name was undeniably _not_ Sara. Sara, who seemed familiar, yet looked like no one he'd ever met. Sara, who was contradictorily good – he could feel it - yet _not._

Sara, who called him an asshole left and right. Sara, whose features were as plain as a witch's could get. Sara, who he sensed the glamour charm on, the magic rippling on her. Sara, who was barely a half-meter away…

She sat there, twisted to face him, legs curled comfortably beneath her. Her jacket and jeans were torn in several places. Pieces of grass were stuck in her shoulder length hair, the color deep and warm, each and every strand impossibly tangled from the wind.

He wished it'd been from his hands.

As if hearing him she lifted a hand and raked her fingers through it, slowly, absently working out the knots.

He wanted to shove his own hands through it. Badly.

Her eyes lifted, catching his. They swirled, for a moment, confused…

He didn't look away; he didn't try to. He let her see.

He saw the moment realization struck her, the moment she suddenly understood the intensity in his eyes.

Her fingers froze within her thick tresses, her full lips parting in silent understanding. "Oh…"

Harry smirked, the expression almost bitter; it was all he could muster.

If Sara minded, it didn't show.

"Merlin," she breathed, "you're not very subtle, are you?"

"Wasn't trying to be."

Her eyes practically shone.

He fought to keep his expression neutral. He probably failed. Harry's eyes declared mutiny and left his conscious control, traveling down the length of her body. Her jacket remained unzipped, torn in multiple places and exposing what lay beneath. His green gaze roamed slowly, past the V of her shirt and the swell of her breasts. They were hidden beneath dampened cotton, yet he could imagine…

Stony malachite slid lower, following the line of her jacket's zipper, dropping down towards her hips, moving with neither his permission nor consent.

Near her hipbone the end of a knife jutted out of a pocket. He absurdly wanted to reach out, to physically search her for weapons.

Harry heard her breath hitch. Sara was barely a meter away. He wasn't even touching her. Not yet.

Imagine how she would sound when he actually was.

"James…"

The sound of her voice, soft and nervous, drew his gaze up. Her shoulder length hair fell artfully around her shoulders, the uneven tips brushing against the dark leather of her battered jacket. What he'd thought were simply tangles in her hair had actually been uneven ends; it looked like a child had taken scissors to her hair and cut it at all angles, with blatant disregard for anything resembling evenness. Like a Muggle collegiate rebelling against the system. His throat tightened, because it suited her. His gaze traveled farther North…

It lingered for a heartbeat upon her lips, before he found her eyes. Those incredible fucking eyes.

Sara's irises swirled, blue against brown; a dark, deeper than black ring encircling them. And the way she was looking at him…

Blood roared in his ears.

She was a criminal.

He didn't care.

The air in his lungs became unsteady.

"You're a criminal," he said. The gruff voice did not sound like him.

Sara's eyes were steady, like calm waters butting up against a rocky shoreline. There was no trace of regret in her tone, no retreat. "I know," she whispered.

His brow creased into a flat line over his eyes. "For all the right reasons."

Her cerulean eyes flickered with firelight. "Something else," she said, lips curving into a wane, hesitant smile, "that I also know."

Every muscle in him had gone taut, tense. Harry let out a shaky damn breath, opening his mouth to do what exactly, he didn't know-

The radio crackled. _"Unit's 4, 7 and 9 will be our targets. Confirm in sequence. Over."_

Sara sucked in a breath and those incredible eyes pulled away from him, glancing towards the handheld unit, before returning to his.

And suddenly Harry Potter knew exactly what he was about to fucking do.

He raised an eyebrow, almost daring her to go for the radio.

And she did. Of course she fucking did.

Sara held his gaze, reaching out blindly, her hand creeping across the floor towards the handheld like a naughty child.

The entire time she never once looked away, a tiny, impish smile threatening her features.

His eyes narrowed; hers glinted with rebellion.

Unit 4 checked in, declaring itself clear.

The radio leader responded.

Sara's fingers reached her prize, curling around the walkie-talkie. Harry's back rippled painfully, his muscles all tightened as he waited, watching as Sara lifted the handheld unit, pausing with it just before her lips. She peered at him over the top, her eyes sparkling, dancing in the candlelight.

Then, with calm defiance, she pressed down on the button, never breaking eye contact. "This is Unit 7," she said quietly, clearly. "And we're clear."

Only she didn't let go.

Her thumb stayed on the communication button, holding it down. The witch paused, stalling. She was torturing him and enjoying every second.

And it was working.

His stomach twisted, almost painfully. _Really?_ he mouthed at her.

 _Patience…_ she mouthed back, a lazy smile playing upon her lips, her thumb tantalizingly close to abandoning that cursed button.

A disgruntled sound emanated from within his chest.

Sara's lips twitched temptingly.

That sound he was making turned into a growl.

Through the mere meter of space separating them, a light he couldn't describe flashed in her eyes. Then slowly, painstakingly a syllable fell from her lips, finally uttered into the speaker. "O-" she began, pausing evilly.

Harry hated her; he truly did.

Her lips remained parted…

Harry scowled.

The final syllable fell out, soft and quiet as she looked directly at him, challenge in her eyes. "-ver. Over."

Harry's pulse roared in his ears.

Sara's thumb slipped off the button, radio held delicately between her fingers.

He knocked it out of her hand.

Harry barely remembered doing it. He batted it away like it was a dangerous asp ready to strike. It clattered to the floor, kicked out of the way as the team leader confirmed transmission. It skidded, metal-over-metal, and slammed into the wall. The heavily accented voice – fucking Rolando – crackled through the speaker, erupting in static as something in the unit physically cracked on impact.

The walls around them – Wally – grumbled.

Like he gave a fuck about that right now.

The next thing Harry knew he was on her; his hand had fisted against the back of her head, fingers tangling in those deep brown tresses he'd wanted to run his fingers through for the past hour. His senses were filled with her presence, her scent – like the burnt wood of a warm bonfire on a cold night; it overwhelmed him. Her hair tickled his nose, in his face. His grip twisted, almost ruthless, in her hair, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from her lips and a clawing hand at his chest. Sara's fingers raked down his chest with near violent intent, and he knew for certainty if clothes hadn't been in the way she _would_ have drawn blood.

He didn't care.

Blood rushed to his ears. The texture of her tresses was silken and tangled and thick all at once. Small bits of mud and grass fell loose between his fingers. Sara's tightened against his shirt and pulled him to her with a needing whine.

And that was all within the first second.

Her mouth, her parted lips had been mere centimeters from his the entire time.

Not anymore.

A groan he didn't recognize erupted from his throat, Sara's lips finding his, Harry claiming them with borderline violence.

And it _was_ violent.

Sara kissed the way a fantasy would. The moment Sara's lips brushed against his, warm and soft and supple and needing, Harry's heart nearly pounded out of his chest. It was like a defibrillator had been shoved directly to him and fired. His whole body jerked; he let loose an unbidden growl, the jolt so painful, so pleasurable he felt like he'd damn near died. Maybe he had. Maybe the storm had killed him and he lay outside, Hermione defibrillating him back to life, again and again, only to lose him, this the residual hallucination. He didn't care if it was. He wanted it again. He wanted _more_ , his heartbeat erratic.

Sara bit down on his lip and drew blood, Harry groaning into her mouth. "Fuck…"

She mewed a sound of agreement.

Harry kissed her like she was a Singapore whore and he was released on parole.

She wasn't pretty. She wasn't his longtime friend, his best mate's sister. There was no long established connection, no commitment, no deeply engrained feeling that stretched through time down to his very marrow. They hadn't fought in a war together. They didn't know each other. She was the fucking antithesis of what he needed.

She was a criminal. But the coppery taste of blood on his tongue…

She turned him on; that was all there was to it.

Hermione's incessant nagging that he needed psychological help oddly made sense.

Sara's hands dipped beneath his jacket collar and he forgot all about Hermione.

With a groan his grip tightened tenfold. His lungs screamed; he couldn't breathe. He gasped for breath against her lips, refusing to break contact, and he felt her insanely doing the same. Sara's hands slid all over him, touching, caressing, the witch insanely kissing back. It was release he hadn't felt since Ginny. Since the break up. Since _ever_.

Ginny had never kissed like this.

He should arrest her.

He could think of a thousand other things he'd rather do to her.

Harry twined his hand in her hair and forced her head back with a violent jerk. It exposed her delicate neck. It was rough; it was sudden; Sara let out a cry.

He didn't care.

His mouth seized her throat, his lips assaulting her skin. He nipped and licked and kissed his way down, Sara's form squirmed against his. _Shit._ His fist remorselessly tightened in her tangled tresses, pulling hard against her scalp, denying her any escape even if she'd dared to try. Her taste lingered on his tongue; her scent intoxicating. He pulled her hair harder and Sara let out a keening moan that sent a lightning bolt of need through him, hardening a certain part of him, a warm tension building in his abdomen, ready to explode.

Harry wanted her. There was no denying it.

It was a fucking first for him; he'd only ever wanted to do this with Ginny.

His hand abandoned her hair, releasing her tresses, fingers following their tumbling path down her back to between her shoulder blades..

Sara instantly whimpered, pressing forward.

Harry let her.

Her hands clawed at his shoulders; the sounds she made pure sin.

Outside the storm howled, Wally making a distressed sound.

Somehow his mouth found hers again.

Harry's hands held her like iron, gripping down along the contours of her lithe form, and Sara pressed flush to him. His hands brushed past her breasts, sliding down her ribcage to the sharp jut of her hips. His fingers tightened, parts of him throbbing, before his hands began a traitorous path back up. He got bolder, Sara whimpering into his mouth as he brazenly grabbed onto her breast through the fabric covering her. Her coat hung halfway open as he massaged through it, kneaded until she sounded as if she were dying.

Her fingers clawed at his chest.

Harry grabbed at her jacket and forced the zipper all the way down.

They sat, tangled together on the floor as the world rumbled around them, vibrations increasing and rattling the metal flooring as Sara shifted to give him better access, her knees digging into his legs. He didn't give a damn that she was bony, that it hurt. He didn't give a damn that the half-broken radio still spewed static. He didn't give a damn that a mud-flow from hell was battering down towards their door. He didn't give a damn that he couldn't do _anything_ about it. And he sure as hell didn't give a damn that the storm raged on, the two of them trapped in an animated metal box impersonating a damn shack, hunkering down for safety.

He was probably going to get eaten alive by this thing.

He didn't give a damn because he was touching her.

With a carnal, desperate sound he tugged her across the slick metal floor until she was practically _on_ him.

Then he grabbed onto her hips and made sure she was.

Her hips bashed into his, Sara straddling him.

The shack gave a dangerous rattle, Sara's thighs tightening around either side of his, the witch clinging to him for sheer balance and safety. Harry's traitorous hands slid up and down her thighs. Her jeans were rough beneath his skin, dampened from the storm. Harry squeezed just above her knee, his hand moving to her inner thigh, moving up.

Sara consented willingly. Her other hand had curled against his coat, digging through his outer layers to scrape his pectorals. He groaned against her mouth as he brushed against a part of her he sure as hell shouldn't be touching, not after knowing her a mere hour, not even after a fucking _month_.

But he was.

And he did.

The vixen grabbed a hold of his hand and put it exactly where it shouldn't be, pressing his fingers down, between her legs, in silent permission.

Harry's eyes shot open, startled.

Sara was looking right back. Her eyes swirled with something unidentifiable, almost bold. If hard pressed he'd say she almost looked surprised with herself, but there was a small, sexy smile playing upon her lips.

He didn't ask questions. Harry rubbed through her jeans, slow at first. Sara hissed a breath and her forehead fell against his. Harry claimed her lips with possessive force, the pressure of his mouth hard, to the point of near pain. He rubbed slow, concentric, rhythmic circles through her clothing, Sara's breathing growing labored, shallow. Her eyes fluttered hazily open, peering at him from beneath dark lashes, Harry breathing equally hard. Though this time…

This time he was the one to manage a vague smirk, his hand refusing to stop, refusing to move faster, torturing her…

That was when Sara's hands shifted, finding _him_.

Harry groaned and barely recognized the sound.

Sara tore her lips from his and threw her head back, gasping in a way that made him want to rob the breath from her.

So he tried.

Harry abandoned his attempts to make her slowly cum and his hands shot to her hips, thumbs snaring within her belt loops, and his mouth found the pulse point on her throat. He could feel her heart beating wildly, frenetically beneath the surface. Harry nipped at it; Sara bucked against him, rubbing against a certain part of him that had him ready to die. He was aroused. He made sounds he didn't recognize and held her there. He held her hips _tight._ He could barely breathe, hearing Sara's entreating whimper, her lips gasping his name, "James!" in a near upset, desperate plea.

He'd never before been so glad to get called the wrong name.

'James' smirked against her flesh and didn't let up. He wouldn't. He _couldn't._ Her skin was coated in a light sheen of sweat and rain, and it was somehow the most intoxicating thing he'd ever tasted. He was drunk off it. He shoved his hand up and beneath her clothing in an impulse, the feel of her warm flesh against his calluses like another lightning bolt through the chest.

His heart about pounded out of it.

Harry groaned against her collarbone and Sara clawed at anything she could reach. She'd felt it too. He was certain. Harry slid his grip around to her back and his fingers raked down her spine, dipping beneath her jeans to feel along her tailbone, the curve of her ass, his thumb catching in what was clearly a thong. He hadn't known someone's back could feel perfect, but hers did. He was hard. There was no denying that. He wouldn't bother to try. Her ministrations, however brief, had been mind-numbing.

They were kissing again. Sara whimpered, her fingers all but tearing his hair from his scalp, but she didn't stop. She squirmed, she clawed, she kissed back, but she didn't _stop_.

The howling outside grew worse, the rattling of the floor beneath them increasing. Oxygen wasn't important. Black spots appeared before his eyes as he tangled his hands in Sara's hair, clothes. Sara found his jacket's zipper, dragging it down, her agile hands slipping beneath, shoving it off his shoulders.

Harry shrugged out of it.

It thudded, near silent, to the floor.

In seconds his skin was left scratched, but fuck if he knew how. She felt up his triceps, forearms. She grabbed at his stomach, curling her fingers in the fabric covering him, nails tracing his abs, urgent as she began to tug the material up and off.

Harry let her, it nearly dislodging his smudged and smeared glasses.

He didn't care.

Her lips slammed back to his.

The half-broken radio unit erupted in static, a booming voice shouting through.

Wally's shutters began clanking violently, a steady rat-a-tat-tat-tat as the entire world became dangerously voluminous. The candlelight began to flicker, the shaking room sending the wicks dancing in a near strobe-light effect.

BAM!

It happened over and over in quick, violence succession. Things slammed into the outer wall, loud and brutal.

Sara jerked back, eyes flying open, and for just a damn second they both froze. Harry heaved harsh, heavy breaths, and Sara's lips were parted and panting and swollen. She looked startled, staring at him from beneath impossibly dark fucking lashes.

For an instant it was bloody calm. The entire room around them shook, but Harry and Sara did nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

They were both aware of where this was going.

Wally let out a dramatic groan.

Sara pressed a hand against the stubble of his cheek, and suddenly Harry was breathing as if he'd just sprinted several kilometers.

Off to the left something cracked.

One of the walls dented visibly in. Llike a light pole had been picked up by the water and launched into the siding. Siding that was popping, cracking, moving on its own accord as 'Wally' made upset, groaning sounds, the edifice magically forcing its dented wall back into place.

With a final _pop_ the wall became flat, and 'Wally' let out a pained whine.

Sara made a fretful sound, her palm dropping to the floor to rest upon the warm metal, her fingers flexing as if worried _._ She was concerned about an inanimate, enchanted object, as if it were some kind of injured pet puppy.

Harry felt a swell of something warm in his stomach. He pressed his face against hers, his nose nudging up against hers.

A distinct roaring could be heard in the distance.

He pressed his mouth to hers and moved it in grinding speech. "Let me guess," he growled, "they're sending more flooding this way?"

She seemed to forget all about Wally. She pressed closer, smiling softly against his lips, and head shook in the most miniscule of denials. Her hands lifted, sliding over his bare arms, and Harry felt like he could die from the tingling alone. "Mmm, that's cute that you call it a flood."

The strobing of the candlelight grew worse, the noise growing loud enough to warrant raised voices.

Harry rose his accordingly, his grip fisting in Sara's hair as he pulled back by mere centimeters to scowl, instantly suspicious. "Cute?"

Her hazy eyes sparkled in a truly terrifying manner.

Fuck. That wasn't good.

"How bad?" he half-snarled, half-choked.

Sara made no move to pull away, Harry watching as her plain features were thrown into stark light, then dark, contrasting shadows of candlelight playing across her skin. "If what Rolando communicated earlier," she said, her swollen lips begging to be dealt with, "before I ran into you is right…then a notch above C4 and a titch below nuclear fallout?"

Harry blinked. "Do I want to know how you have a basis of comparison for either of those?"

"Probably not." Her eyes flitted away from him, towards the walls, a small frown on her face. "When it hits Wally should be able to hold up okay. It's what he was designed for."

She didn't sound altogether convinced.

He swore to Salazar Slytherin's dead basilisk that 'Wally' chuckled.

"How reassuring…"

The room around them gave a violent rattle.

Sara gnawed on her lower lip, thoughtful. "Perhaps…just in case…"

Her eyes flickered back to his.

Harry's tensed, arching a brow, waiting.

She threw herself at him.

He caught her.

She still knocked him flat on his back. He struck the rattling ground with a solid _oomph_ , grabbing onto her in one firm, fast move. He grabbed her around the waist, his grip solid as iron. It was pure reflex. Reflex born of being hunted, of running for his life, of being an Auror.

He grabbed at her like a drowning man clutching onto a preserver. He kissed her, lips melding, breaths hot and panting for a tempestuous moment that stretched. Sara's weight pressed down on top of him, her hair hanging like a veil into his face. Her hands slid up his bare chest, the witch's fingers finding a scar from the war and digging her fingernails into it, as if that would make it go away.

It didn't; but his body gave an involuntary shudder. "Shit," he growled, "do that again."

And she did.

At some point Harry divested her of her jacket and shirt. He didn't know how. He just knew the irritating items lay in a heap at their side, the leather torn, and Sara…

Bright green eyes beheld her. Harry's chest heaved, eyes darkening to that of an old forest. Her skin was smooth, silky, pale, perfect. The only fabric left on her upper body hugged her breasts, it a bright blue shade that matched her left eye, but not her right. Her breasts filled that fabric, ample, threatening to spill skin covering her ribcage and smooth, flat stomach traveled like a pale, flowing river down her form to her navel, ending at the hem of her dark jeans. They hugged her jutting hip bones, her thin frame making them visible, drawing his eye.

His stomach clenched.

The faintest hint of a scar began on her right hip, it cutting a single vicious line until it disappeared below her jeans. Harry sucked air between his teeth and felt ill. It was a curse scar. A dark curse. He of all people knew what those looked like. He had one on his fucking head. He wanted to ask how, but the words didn't come.

Just the sight of it robbed the breath from him.

Sara lay beneath him, her rounded breasts heaving. She wanted air back. He wasn't inclined to give it. She lay there, pale, beautiful, and vulnerable.

It occurred to him she'd made him shudder by touching his scar…

Harry reached out, fingers grazing the marred tissue along her hip.

Her head jerked back so quick she knocked it against the floor, her entire form _shivering._ For a second he froze, afraid he had hurt her, Harry watching as goosebumps prickled her flesh, crawling across her entire body.

And then she begged for more.

With a groan he dragged his hand down the length of her scar, following it as far as he could. Sara whimpered beneath him. He abandoned that indulgence – her jeans in the way – and moved his hands to her smooth, flat stomach, indulging in the feel of her skin beneath his until he clutched firmly onto either side of her body. The world beneath them _shook_. It was like laying on top of a V8 engine's hood, the engine operating at full tilt on open highway. His callused, firm grip slid farther up, towards those perfect fucking breasts, his mouth and hers warring, pressing together, deepening.

With cold certainty he knew he loved kissing this woman.

She moaned against his mouth and he about lost it. Her fingernails raked down his chest to his stomach. Pinpricks of blood welled up over his hard fought muscles, training with sadistic-ass-Kingsley having given him what genetics had not. It physically hurt, but it turned him on, and as he felt Sara grab at his belt, her free hand fisting into his hair, frenziedly deepening their kiss, Harry knew damn well it wasn't just him.

Outside thunder rumbled, a sharper, louder _crack_ following it.

The roar increased, like a freight train mere feet away-

The flood struck Wally with the force of three hundred giants attacking at once.

The floor beneath them bucked like a ship in a turbulent sea.

Everything moved. The walls. The floor. The entire fucking building. The shack was picked up and physically thrown into the air at least a meter, tilting everything to the side. Harry grabbed at her, barely snaring her in time, keeping Sara top atop him. He and Sara went skidding across the floor, the broken walkie talkie skittering past at a skull-crushing pace and missing his head by mere inches.

They tumbled.

Wally cussed.

Harry Potter was positive the building actually cussed, and then the floor came to life and something thunderous slammed into the ground beneath them.

The throwing motion that had sent them careening to the side abruptly stopped, knocking them in the opposite direction.

The noise exploded beneath them again and again. It threw them back and forth across the floor like gobstones in a goblet. The noise exploded in his ear drums; it sounded like bolts the size of phone poles were being brutally bashed into the earth like tree roots underneath them. Like the shack was taking ahold of the ground beneath it, preventing itself from being torn wall-from-wall by the floodwaters. Each SLAM sent the floor vibrating, bouncing. Each time Harry and Sara's bodies were knocked into the air by several inches.

The last was the worst.

The entire building shuddered, a metallic groan ripping through the air. The walls on the far side bent in, curving unnaturally, and something high pitched moaned, like steel being strained.

It all ended with a grating _snap._

The floor beneath them jerked, throwing them a half foot into the air as the shack righted itself.

Harry slammed back into the floor and slammed hard. The back of his head impacted the metal with a sharp thud. The back of his skull exploded in painand everything spun, Sara still on top of him. She was smaller, far smaller. She clung to him, her face buried against his shoulder, his body protecting hers as he let out an agonized groan.

And for a second, just a fucking second they both lay there, the shack shuddering around them, the walls groaning as they threatened to buckle, to collapse inwards, but hey, at least the floor was no longer shifting.

Harry felt more than saw her move.

Sara lifted her head, peering at him with parted lips as his vision swam. "James…" she murmured, hand sliding to the side of his face, something incredibly worried in her features. "James are you-"

He caught her hand in response, clenching his fingers around hers, his eyes gritting shut with a low groan.

Sara's lips curved into a smile.

And then her lips found his jaw.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up at the sensation, it undeniably good.

The shack was under assault, a viciously loud and painful _thrumming_ erupting within Wally's walls. Their metal coffin hummed with disturbing life – in truth it was like they could hear Wally screaming. Harry could hear it: the water outside rushed around the shack, striking it again and again with the force of a battering ram. The waters carried tumbling debris; debris that repeatedly dented the walls only for Wally to pop them back out as the animate edifice fought hard to stay intact.

He'd send the thing a fucking fruit basket later.

Then again, if Sara was right about it liking to eat people, maybe he'd just gift wrap a Death Eater instead Good riddance.

Sara was kissing along his jawline like nothing was going on, her lips like liquid fire. "Thought," he groaned, "you said Wallster could handle it?"

Sara's light laugh ghosted against his chin. "Sometimes I lie."

Right. That begged further question about his rapidly decreasing life expectancy. He never got to ask.

Harry's insides turned molten, something heated building within his stomach, sliding down to where Sara's thigh rubbed between his legs. His head throbbed and screamed as he opened his eyes, but shit…

He found himself staring at the top of Sara's head, her deep brown hair scattered across his chest as dust flaked down from the ceiling, her lips tracing a wicked path down his neck, moving to his chest, her fingers…

Fuck, he couldn't think about what her fingers were doing.

The world _shook_. A smarter, less turned on part of his brain bellowed that they needed to stop. They weren't safe. It sounded like Kingsley, like Hermione. Merlin he needed to think.

"Sara," he croaked, voice urgent and raspy and thick.

In the corner the small, rectangular box that was a fridge gyrated across the ground, metal against metal sparking fire.

"Sara," he tried again, and she didn't hear him above the noise.

It was like the world was ending.

Her hand followed the dark line of hair from his navel to his belt, slipping skillfully beneath the top of his undone jeans, finding-

Harry jerked, his head knocking back with a low groan.

They had to _stop_.

His body refused. He clawed a hand down the slope of her back, knuckles catching in her bra strap, the witch shivering against him. He heard his name, murmured against his stomach as her lips continued traveling down…

Her hand, beneath his jeans, wrapped around the hardest part of him and began to move.

He saw black. Heat shot through him; it raged across every inch of his flesh. They had to stop. They _had_ to. Before he forcibly took her. Before the building caved in around them. Before he wound up with an epitaph reading 'death by incredible sex.' Harry croaked her name, desperate, and still…she didn't hear him.

He _made_ her. In a moment of sanity he grabbed her by the arms and jerked her brutally up, Sara yelping in startlement.

Harry Potter stared at her in blatant, blazing damn question.

The damnable witch blinked in confusion, her full lips parted, hair a tangled mess from his hands. She was panting, catching her breath, her bra barely holding the rounded mounds of her breasts within their confines as she pressed down atop him. Those eyes of hers – those spectacular fucking eyes – spun with question.

His dick throbbed at the loss.

Harry Potter held her by both arms, holding her there to stare at her in silent damn shock. Their legs had tangled together, her hips pressing down against his undone belt buckle as they lay there, the world's vibrations enticing him to take her there and then.

They could fucking die here, and she seemed entirely unconcerned so long as she was doing him when it happened.

He was rather inclined to agree.

Ginny hadn't wanted to have sex if there was even the slightest risk of her family coming home, even if they would be downstairs.

Sara was content to have it when there was an imminent risk of being crushed.

Harry opened his mouth to ask - no, _demand_ – what that fuck was wrong with her, what the fuck was wrong with _him,_ what they were doing, but he never got that far.

Her nose scrunched, in that way he'd never seen another living being do besides a rabbit, his name a breathless question amidst the chaos. "James?"

He stared at her, out of breath.

She licked her lips. More dust flaked down from the ceiling, falling like snow.

An everlasting candle rolled past, the burning wick throwing shadows on the walls.

For the love of things unholy, until a second ago she'd had her hand down his pants.

" _James_?" she repeated, and his heartbeat grew louder and faster in his ears. Her face was close, _so_ close. Close enough to claim if he wanted it.

And he did want it.

The hard part of his throat rose and fell as he choked down a swallow, his mouth dry. "The shack…it's falling apart."

Her eyebrows furrowed, eyes glinting in honest confusion.

Why was this so hard? Harry's hands slid down her bare arms, falling to flex on her waist, tone rough. "We need to…fortify, or…" he didn't know. He just knew that the floor still vibrated against his back, making his voice uneven. Water roared outside. The metal shutters had long since sealed, but they gave a disturbing rat-a-tat-tat that had him tensing, ready for them to burst inward at any fucking second, and here he was with a half naked witch atop him.

He'd die happy.

Sara's mouth fell open in a silent 'o'. She stared at him for a second, and then another. Her fingers spread out over his chest. "You're serious?"

His brows knitted in a deep line over his eyes, a grimace his only response.

Despite her breathlessness, despite her swollen lips, she eyed him shrewdly. "Fortify?" she breathed in, giving a small nod that sent her hair spilling in front of her eyes. "So…how would you suggest we do that then?" She tilted her head. "Perhaps we could shove the fridge in front of the door? Spell-o-tape on the shutters?"

Well shit, when she put it like that it sounded ridiculous.

Her lips twitched just a little, betraying her subtle amusement.

The ever-lasting candle rolled back towards them, thunking against his boot. He made no move to remove it, and after a moment the slight stench of melting rubber met his nostrils. Sara nudged it away with her foot, her eyes never leaving his.

He looked at her, and she looked at him, and Harry had the instant feeling she saw right through him.

"You're worried," she said, as if reading his thoughts, "you're taking advantage." She paused. "And probably about our safety."

A small accent had come out, almost French.

Merlin he loved the way she said 'probably.'

He managed a grunt in response.

"We're perfectly safe," she assured. "Wally, he's built for this. Gets a thrill. And as for…this," her eyes flickered meaningfully over his, the witch shifting upon him, "believe me, you're _not_."

One of Harry's hands had slid to her lower back, caressing along her spine. His other hand had remained firmly on her side, his thumb rubbing against her exposed hip bone. Her jeans had fallen low in the scuffle, exposing the long length of her bare back, the curve of her ass barely seen.

Harry hadn't said a fucking word yet. He didn't trust himself.

Sara didn't seem to mind.

He was rapidly learning that about her.

"On these missions, when there's two of us," she continued carefully, "we usually play cards." She moved, propping her elbows up on his chest to peer down at him with unrestrained mischief. "Would you prefer to play cards, James?"

She asked as if it were an actual question.

Wally made a whining, pained sound. Things continued to thunk audibly against the shack's outer walls, and Harry racked his mind for an answer. Sara wasn't bothered by any of this, her eyes alight, shining.

His voice vibrated, scratchier than he'd ever heard. "You expected this."

"Mmm," she murmured, as if speaking to a naïve first year, "I keep forgetting this is your first hurricane. Or flood. At least I assume it is." Her form shifted, ever-so-slightly, the witch getting more comfortable. With her full weight on him she'd rubbed against his arousal, a shot of raw, hot need driven straight through him.

His eyes glazed over, going practically black.

A tiny, impish smile played at the corners of her lips.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

She'd expected this.

She wanted this.

"Unless," she persisted softly, playfully, "you're not enjoying your hurricane experience, and wanted to play cards?"

He stared at her in abject silence.

"Perhaps somewhere else you needed to be?"

He hated her. He really did.

Sara's fingers curled against his chest, her nails digging into his skin. She silently waited, a lock of hair slipping, falling to veil her eyes and tickle her nose.

That small, ordinary nose crinkled in irritation, and for some inexplicable reason that was what broke him.

It was all he could take.

An annoyed sound burst out of him.

The Seeker flipped her. Sara was on her back, Harry seizing her body before the startled whimper had even left Sara's lips. His mouth crushed to hers, his hands grabbing, sliding down her ribcage, stomach, anywhere he could touch. Hardened calluses and scars along his palms did the work for him, creating friction against her skin. He'd thank Oliver for the Quidditch torture later. For now his elbow dug into the floor alongside her, Harry suspended centimeters above her, his mouth abandoning hers to stare angrily down.

"Cards?" he demanded.

She laughed, breathlessly.

Harry didn't give her a chance to do anything else.

He attacked her skin, kissing up and down along her jawline, loving every second.

Sara mewled in protest, only to gasp as he found her swiftly beating carotid. Harry sucked against her pulse, nipping, biting against her skin. She sunk her nails into his back, deep between his muscles, Harry jerking at the pained pleasure, his pelvis pressing harder to hers with the motion.

If Sara had harbored any doubt about whether or not he wanted her it was gone. She lifted her hips up against his, making a keening sound, and Harry rutted against her as if the sheer act could vanish her clothing and bring him inside her.

It didn't.

He wanted it to. "I hate," he rasped, words growled directly against her skin, "your pants."

Sara was panting, her head tilted back, dark hair spilling across the floor. The angle exposed every smooth centimeter of her smooth neck, granting him access. His lips stole across her skin. "Thought," she gasped, breathless, "you wanted…to play cards." He bit behind her ear, Sara whimpering, her fingers clawing at the backs of his jeans, clenching against his ass.

He barked out a bitter laugh, mouth pressed roughly to her cheek. "I'll burn the fucking deck."

Fingers snared sharply in his hair, tugging at his scalp. In a heartbeat her mouth was back against his. " _Don't_ ," she threatened, "touch my deck, James." And hell, she sounded serious.

He could only smirk. "Don't threaten to stop."

Tilting her face, nose shunting alongside his, it elicited something good. Her hands were sliding all over his head, scratching against his rough stubble then tugging at his hair, yanking it by the roots as she breathed against him in quiet threat. "Wouldn't dare," she promised.

Harry's hand slid along the side of her face, motion gentle, uncharacteristic.

He seized her lips with fervor.

The floor reverberated with amplified sound beneath them, and his hands fisted in her hair. She smelled of a smokey, wood-burnt fire, mixed with cinnamon and vanilla and all things good, words coming out before he could stop.

"Campfire?" he demanded, kissing down her neck.

She nodded, gasping, "Last night. On the beach."

He could imagine the smoke coiling up from it, caressing her hair and leaving behind its trace.

He could also imagine taking her alongside it, in the sand, on a secluded stretch of beach.

"Shit…"

Harry suffocated her in a bruising kiss. His nose pressed to hers, pinning her nostrils shut for Merlin-knew how long. He wanted this; he _needed_ this, the kiss searing and hard enough to practically be mouth-to-mouth. Sara tried to breathe only to find she _couldn't._ Desperately she tried to gasp, only for him to steal the air from her. Oxygen wasn't important. He was depriving her of it, depriving _himself,_ it heightening everything.

He kissed her for all he was worth, and all that mattered was that they didn't, _didn't_ stop.

A low, deoxygenated buzz filled his head.

Sara made a sound so sinful, like she _enjoyed_ it, and he swore to hell it went on for another full minute until Sara's hands clawed at his shoulders, pain lancing through him as pinpricks of blood welled up beneath her nails. She couldn't breathe, and neither could he.

Unable to _take_ it Harry jerked back, chest heaving as if he'd fought in a dozen back-to-back duels. Sara lay limp beneath him, gasping against his chin, calling him an ass even as she pressed his lips back to hers.

Never before had he laid a hand on a complete stranger; never before had he wanted to.

The scratch marks on him burned, Harry aware he'd come out of this covered in claw marks.

He didn't care.

Underneath them the ground was unnaturally warm, pulsating. It was like laying on a Muggle washer. It didn't take a damn genius to recognize that the floor waters ran directly beneath where they lay, the only thing separating them from pleasure and certain death a thin layer of Wally's metal.

He tried not to think about the fact that the floor was the equivalent of Wally's ass.

Harry shoved his hand beneath Sara's bra, palming her breast. He didn't ask permission. Sara let out a choking gasp, quivering beneath him, driving him on. He clutched beneath the silky fabric covering her, Harry kneading, coaxing until all new sounds fell forth from her lips. He flicked his thumb over her nipple, feeling her growing tauter beneath it, Harry rubbing, and Sara…

Sara made a sound, and he would have sold his soul to Voldemort to hear it again.

Her hands raked down his exposed chest, trailing across his abdomen, lingering on his pelvis. She didn't stop. Her wicked fingers slid lower, feeling, touching, caressing every inch she could. Sara reached him, feeling the hardened proof of what she'd done to him, rubbing him desperately through his jeans.

Harry could have cummed there and then.

His eyes glazed over, and he caught her by the wrist, choking desperately for her to slow down.

She understood, her pace instantly abating. With a groan he tugged millimeters back to simply lookat her. Sara's lidded eyes peered hazily back from beneath dark, inky lashes. Against him she shivered, Harry winding his free arm behind her back and clutching her tightly to him. Neither stopped their ministrations upon the other, but in silent agreement they slowed. They slowed to a wicked, near torturous crawl. Harry massaged her breast, the fabric of her brazier scraping against the back of his hand until he wanted to tear it off, and Sara…

Sara's hand, her fingers, her palm slid up and down, up and down…

Harry's breathing grew ragged as hell, the wizard abandoning his ministrations, his hand dropping down to join hers, feeling every centimeter of smooth skin along her abdomen, venturing lower...

He held her eyes with brazen question and she made no move to stop him. His fingers traced around her navel. His thumb flicked open the top button of her jeans, his large hand disappearing down the front, fingers finding her most intimate spot, Harry's fingers beginning to massage, circling.

They no longer were kissing. Their lips hovered mere centimeters from one another. He felt her breath hitch against his lips. Sara's ample chest was rising, falling, practically bursting as she tried and failed at the simple task of simply breathing. Her own hand grew tight around him, as tight as it could through the clothing covering him, it damn near bruising, painful, and Harry's forehead thudded against hers with a deep, needing sound.

But he never stopped.

Harry massaged her in slow, rhythmic circles. He refused to go faster, refused to rush even as she panted beneath him, even as the ground shook. Sara made small, keening sounds and his eyes remained glued to her face.

Inside him something brutally aware, brutally familiar stirred.

He didn't know how, why.

He pulled her to him, doing his best to make her scream. Sara let out a small, beautiful cry, her hand rubbing uncoordinatedly against him now, as if she'd lost all sense of self and time and reason, as if she were trying to give him what he was giving her, only for his jeans to be too in the way.

As were hers. Her jeans were tight, leaving little room for his hand to maneuver, work. Harry didn't give a damn and forcibly shoved his hand lower until he felt a warm, damper spot on the silky fabric covering her, his fingers slipping it skillfully aside, sliding slowly, purposefully _in._

Sara bucked as if she'd been shot.

A plaintive begging fell from her lips.

He pressed his fingers deep inside her, before dragging them slowly, painstakingly out _,_ only to shove them back inside. Sara moaned beneath him, Harry's mouth dropping, seizing her breast, the slow movement of his hand never ceasing. He bit at the fabric of her bra to move it, claiming her nipple between his teeth. Sara murmured, near incoherent, rolling her hips against him as if seeking more contact, more friction, more of something only he could give.

Harry gave in, his hand suddenly, brutally moving _faster._

He was fairly certain Sara screamed, the sound driving him to the edge.

He was straining against his jeans, near bursting, desperate.

With a last kiss to her breast he forced his mouth back up, reclaiming her lips. He was inside her. Inside her, flicking and circling and creating a rising, hot friction that Sara could barely take. He did his worst. She was tight. He didn't have to _ask_ if she'd done this before; something clicked in his mind, with sudden clarity he knew. His stomach vaulted, not unpleasantly, this her _first,_ and by Merlin…he didn't care.

He should; he didn't _know_ her.

But he wanted her, was having her, and the witch….

She wanted him _back_.

Her hips jerked against him, as if her body was out of her control. Sara was barely kissing now, her breaths swift and fast, as if she couldn't breathe. He could bring her to climax if he wanted. He _knew_ he could, would if he didn't stop. She whined, rocking her hips up to meet his hand, Sara clenching around him. Harry instantly slowed, deliberately bringing her back down as she clawed at his ass, thigh, the ground.

When she came, when he finally _took_ her, he wanted to be inside her.

Sara squirmed beneath him, rolling her hips, silently begging him to continue. He wouldn't. He slowed even more...

A frustrated, impatient sound left her lips, Sara kissing him _hard_ , Harry smirking against her.

And then she moved, swift and sure of herself, and with a deft motion the zipper was down and his jeans were no longer in the way.

Sara's hand wrapped tightly around him.

He about died.

Their hands were _everywhere._

It didn't take long for their shoes to be kicked off, Harry's hands looping through her belt loops to slowly drag her jeans down, off her legs. A rising, terrible howl filled the room as the storm outside worsened. Sara was sitting up, Harry's arms wrapped around her near-naked form, the witch's lips against his neck, kicking off her jeans, never stopping.

Another BANG struck a wall with force, denting in with a loud screech.

This time Harry didn't so much as look up.

He palmed her breast, kneading, coaxing with such force, such verocity that a bystander would wonder if he were applying CPR. He wasn't. He felt her and felt her thoroughly, to the point of causing her pain, Sara whimpering and moaning, writhing beneath him, unable to settle upon a sensation and Harry not wanting her to.

Inevitably clothes were divested, only a single bra strap clinging to Sara's shoulder, forgotten about as Harry hovered over her, wordless question in his eyes. Sara's hair was fanned out around her head, still tangled, still riddled with tiny pieces of grass, and he worshipfully drank in the sight. Her plain face, her un-extraordinary nose, chin, were more than made up for by her athletic form, Sara's breasts full and round, hips perfect as his grip wrapped around either side. And still he made no move, _waiting_.

Sara's eyes, lidded and needing, met his.

Harry shot her a glare, the witch _knowing_ what he needed to hear.

She wet her lips, almost nervous. And then a tiny, infinitesimal smile twitched upon her lips, Sara giving a careless, one-shouldered shrug. As if she could not care less what came next, when he'd had her incoherent mere moments before.

"Minx," he snarled.

Her eyes simply sparkled. "Guilty."

With a low growl he seized her lips. Harry's knee shoved between Sara's legs, knocking her thigh farther out. He was kissing her, Sara kissing back. His grip slid beneath her form, clutching her to him, arching her back off the ground even as she rolled her hips, her pelvis pressing tight, near to him. His erection pressed hard against her. There were so _close._

Harry fisted a grip in her thick hair, claiming the side of her face, speaking against her ear. "Sara," he gasped, "are you _sure_?"

Their hips had begun moving, almost without their permission, like the primitive animals they were deep down. Their waists pressed together in slow, rhythmic motions. He'd penetrate her by accident if they didn't stop, but they didn't, Harry wanting nothing more than to finish it.

Sara closed her eyes and began to kiss him, rolling her hips in a hard, fast, determined move.

Harry's eyes glazed over and he grabbed onto her with enough force to break a literal snitch mid-Quidditch cup. He rolled his hips back and he found her entrance. His breath caught, Harry pausing, hesitating for a damn second.

Sara whined against his lips, her hands sliding to the back of his head, tugging at his hair… "James, _please_ …"

If he'd had to wait any longer it might have killed him.

With a needing groan he thrust.

Sara made a pained sound against his lips, and Harry slid his arms around her, keeping her close. He pressed in with great damn deliberation, feeling her warmth expanding to take him. The sensation around his shaft about exploded; Harry wanted nothing more than to take her, to thrust repeatedly, but he took this, this first damn entry, slow.

He didn't have to ask if she'd done this before; as she wrapped her arms around him, as Harry penetrated deep inside, he knew she hadn't. His heart beat wildly in his chest, Sara's breathing slowed, shaken.

Finally Harry filled her; he could do no more. He gave her a second to simply breathe, to adjust, Harry kissing her, relishing the sweet taste of her lips as he let her get used to the feeling. His dick throbbed inside her, begging, demanding for movement, friction, release, but Harry…

Harry made himself wait.

Sara's hand slid down the length of his back, fingers tightening against his ass, the witch pressing him down, deeper into her.

Harry's lips smirked against hers, word a husky growl against her lips. "Impatient?"

She bit down hard on his lip and a sharp throb of pain daggered through him. Blood instantly welled, tasted on his tongue even as she tugged his lip back between her own, gently kissing, accusing, "Tease."

Well, since the witch had asked so politely…

Harry slid out of her, fully withdrawing, Sara hissing at the sudden loss. He then pressed back down, teasing, pressing into her just a fraction of an inch. Sara made an upset sound, trying to force her hips up, to push his back down, but he resisted. Her eyes flew open to stare at him; Harry smirked openly. "Now this," he clarified, "is teasing."

She shook her head in slow astonishment. "You really are," she murmured, disbelieving, "an asshole."

He rolled his pelvis and pressed just an inch farther down and into her, eliciting a hiss. He arched an eyebrow. "Am I?" He feigned confusion.

He watched as Sara's eyes fluttered shut. "Merlin…"

"Not," he growled, "my name."

Laying there, sprawled out beneath him and his for the taking, her lips cured in a sly smile. "Neither is James, but you don't seem to complain about that."

His heart thudded, flipping in his chest.

Her eyes flittered back open, those remarkable shades of blue fixing upon him. When she saw his expression genuine concern crossed her features, her hand sliding up to the side of his face. "James?"

 _James_ …

He really liked being called that by her.

He didn't say anything else. Harry just gathered her against him and began to move. He moved inside her, mind-numbing sensations seizing him, Harry's entire body tingling, as if electrified, all at once. Sara was shifting, arching against him, and Harry's hold around her shoulders tightened even more as he kissed her for all he was worth. The metal floor beneath them dug against his wrist, the floor vibrating as the turbulent waters outside continued to tumble muddily past, and it somehow added to the sensation of being inside her. The vibrations, the friction…

The thunkering and thudding of objects striking against Wally continued, one after the other, threatening to blast straight through the wall to crush or drown them where they lay. He didn't care. He didn't care if he died doing this or she did. He'd give her mouth to mouth; he'd get her back if only to do this again. He groaned, repeatedly, against her lips, trying to catch his breath, trying to think, to stay coherent so he could make this last for her. He was forgetting something but fuck if he knew what. The feel of her sodding form, breasts and hips and her smooth, flat stomach pressing over and over to him drove him closer and closer to a damn edge he wanted to careen off even if it killed him.

Sara clung to him, her fingers clutching, raking their way down his shoulders. Harry was groaning her name that was not her name, the fact that he didn't even _know_ her making this wrong and yet so much better than it'd ever been with Ginny. "Sara…" he moaned again, a pulsating pleasure rising, a warm ball in his stomach growing, expanding…

It occurred to him that he was fucking her, taking her on the floor of an edifice that was animate, that could watch them.

A dark part of Harry's mind didn't care. _Let him watch_.

Harry's hand slid down to the curve of Sara's ass and began to press her up and into him. Rhythmically. Desperately. For every time his pelvis pressed down he helped her move her hips up. Sara slid her hand down his arm, feeling his triceps and tracing the contours of every muscle that currently worked to suspend his body up and over hers. A shudder racked through him, his body spasming, and Harry abruptly dragged his hand down to her hip for reasons he couldn't name. He grabbed ahold of the bony protrusion and held her as they continued to move together, his thumb tracing over that disgusting scar he'd seen earlier.

It was ugly, it marred the surface of her perfect skin, and yet he was drawn to it, wanting to touch it.

The second he did Sara reacted as if she'd been struck with the killing curse or an ungrounded electrical wire. She jerked so violently that their teeth knocked together, reopening the bloodied bite marks she'd left on his lip. Her body bucked against him, her breathing unbelievably erratic, and fuck if that didn't do things to his dick trapped in her tight confines.

It did. He nearly cummed from that sudden movement alone.

With a growl he went faster. He was no longer going slow, no longer taking his time, no longer being as gentle as he should be. Sara was breathing fast and unreliably against him. He half wondered if she'd stop breathing at any fucking second, his thumb continue to rub against that scar and sending gooseflesh prickling across her entire body. Sara moaned beneath him, something unintelligible, and yet a dagger of familiarity was within him as he swore to fucking Merlin she moaned _Harry_.

He didn't care if she had.

Harry fucked her against the floor, dust flaking down from the ceiling as another tremor shook the shack. He felt something warm well up against him, Harry not needing to ask if it were blood. It _was_. He sucked in a breath that matched Sara's. Harry had taken her virginity, the virginity of a complete damn stranger, and he was alight with it. He was _more_ than alright with it. He wanted more of her. He wanted all of her. His hips rammed down onto hers again and again, a burning ball of iron heating and growing within him. A pulsating pleasure. He could die. He couldn't take it. He needed her. He needed release. He needed to come.

"Sara," he moaned, tilting his head against hers to gasp and to better look at her. Her eyes, irises of swirling color that he swore to Dumbledore appeared to _move_ as he fucked her, peered up at him, heavy and lidded and needing. His own eyes were dark as ink. Sara's lips were full, swollen, the bright spot of red on her lower lip clearly his blood. Harry liked seeing that on her. He didn't understand it; he didn't care to.

He just wanted to fuck her.

He fisted a hand in her hair and crushed his mouth to hers, the coppery taste of his own fucking blood on his tongue as he licked at her lips. She let out a small whimper, a whine of need, and he buried his face in her hair to inhale her scent. It was fucking perfect. Woodsy and cinnamon and vanilla. It was like he were scenting, drinking in the perfect Christmas libation around a bonfire with family and friends, and hell if he didn't want her more for it.

His cock throbbed within her. It throbbed, screaming for her. Harry needed release, release only she could give.

He was impatient. Harry's eyes began to see black as oxygen left him, a buzzing in his head. There was no need to breathe anymore, only to claim her, take her, mark her as _his_ as he kissed her desperately on that shaking floor. The vibrations made every sensation better, heightening his nerves. Sara was begging against his mouth, for what he knew not, but the name 'James' fell forth from her lips again and again like she was dying, drowning, and he was the only answer to save her.

He kissed her desperately.

Harry's hand grabbed a hold of her breast, clutching, kneading, coaxing. He needed her to cum with him, Harry groaning against her skin.

Sensation built up and up, the burning hot coil in his gut rising. If he had to wait any longer it'd kill him. It'd be worth it. His eyes glazed over, his arousal buried deep within Sara, Harry inside her as he moved, creating a delicious friction that had him ready to explode.

And then he did.

Harry's magic released with the force of one of those muggle explosives she'd talked about.

Sara screamed.

Molten fire doused them. Sara threw her head back, gasping for air. He didn't let her. Harry yanked her perfect fucking face back to his, crushing his mouth to her lips. They were warm and inviting and _fuck_ he couldn't describe the feeling. He was pounding into her, thrusting without thought, smelted steel in his stomach, in his core, between his legs. Raw and undiluted sensation lanced out in every direction, like primal magic, and Sara trembled beneath him, crying out as he felt her tighten around every inch of his cock impaled deep within her.

His skin tingled, burning.

Harry spasmed inside her, again and again, as if he really had died in that storm only to be brought back to life by some cruel sadist who refused to let his heart lay still. As soon as his heart dared to beat that same sadist would clench an iron grip around it, torturously letting it struggle, Harry trying desperately to fucking feel until he failed, the sadist forcing it to stop, forcing him to fucking flat line, killing him in the most perfect, pleasurable way possible, only to do it all over again.

Harry's body jerked against hers, wave after wave of pleasure seizing him. He felt her claw at his back, shoulders. His magic flooded her, a faint glow surrounding, and as she cried out he felt hers reach out to fill him too.

Spots appeared before his eyes; his lips sought hers, deepening contact at every possible point, as deep as he could get. He throbbed with a bone deep ache for her. He wanted her. He was having her. Sara writhed beneath him, moaning, making sounds.

Everything went black.

Harry slumped against her, breath hot and panting. He tried not to crush her. He tried. He may have failed.

It took a moment for his vision to come back. When it did the room was still shaking, though not as violently. Dust flaked down from the ceiling with the larger impacts, and as his vision re-focused he saw evidence of it in the hazy, chestnut blur in front of his nose. It was Sara's dark hair, sprawled out in a messy halo around her head. Tiny pieces of gray-white dust had fallen, flecking into her oddly wavy tresses, looking bad dandruff.

It was hot and humid, and each and every single everlasting candle had been knocked to the metal floor. Their wicks still burnt, casting eerie, reflective glows around the room. He found himself petting her, stroking her face, twining his fingers within her hair. Her cinnamon scented hair.

Her scent overwhelmed him.

Sara stirred, letting out a quiet groan. She was crushed beneath him. Her lips parted against the stubble covering his cheek, murmuring something he couldn't make out.

Every centimeter of their bodies had melded together, their skin hot and sticky, and Harry's stomach twisted flipped at the feel.

He was still inside her.

Sara made a soft sound of discomfort.

Despite himself, despite the tingling still radiating across his entire body wherever she touched, despite the high-pitched and de-oxygenated buzz ringing in his own ears, Harry heaved a dryly humored breath.

Sara's fingers twitched between his shoulder blades, where she still tiredly clung. "Ugh…"

He gulped in a lungful of air, voice hoarse. "Fair enough."

He was, after all, crushing her.

Harry pressed the palm of his hand flat against the warmed steel and eased himself off her, candlelight flickering against the floor. He hovered over her, Harry's hips still pressing to hers, but his weight had been removed from her chest. That was as far as he dared move. He wasn't ready to physically leave her, to slide out of where she'd allowed him to penetrate her, not yet. Harry was spent, but his nerves remained on fire, every centimeter of skin crawling with sensation. He was loathe to stop it, and the moment this was over, the moment he was no longer in her, he feared it would.

He wanted to stay inside her, for reasons he couldn't name.

Sara made a quiet, appreciative sound, patting his shoulder like you would a well-behaving pet.

He chuckled, only for his dick to move inside her. Instantly his muscles grew taut, hips shifting to prevent the inevitable. But for now…

For now he made damn sure his softening member didn't slide out of her. Not yet. Not now. He let out a low groan at the feel of her. Even after they'd consummated whatever insanity this was. Even after having had her, he still fucking wanted her. Hell…

He wasn't alone. Sara's breaths went shallow.

Then she made a low, quiet, sinful sound. She clenched around him, entirely unaware she was doing it.

Harry groaned and about saw black again. His arms shook, fatigued. He swallowed down a lump, then smoothed a lock of hair away from her brow. Her skin was coated with a thin sheen of sweat, her skin glistening.

It was sexy as hell.

She was sweaty because of him.

He could have taken her again then and there. But she'd bled, and he needed to be gentle, so his lips shifted into a self-satisfied smirk. "You okay?" he asked.

Sara sighed, eyes fluttering to peer at him in quiet accusation. "You smushed me."

He sniffed quietly, amused. "Yes well, you made me see black. Should have anticipated that outcome."

Beneath him the strange creation he'd run into not hours earlier made a disgruntled, velociraptor-like sound. "You ox."

A dagger of amusement shot through his veins.

"Sorry dear."

Sara slittened her eyes in a halfhearted, suspicious glare.

His lips twitched, and he looked anything but contrite.

"Dear?" she voiced. Her hand slid over his shoulder, falling to lay flat against his chest. "I take it this means you _won't_ be arresting me?"

Harry about shuddered beneath her touch. "Rumor has it, this is outside my jurisdiction." He wet his lips, a dagger of something new and strange and good slicing through him. "Would hate to offend the Honduran Ministry on my first international outing. Could cause a stir."

Sara shot him a calculating look. "Somehow I doubt you've ever been opposed to causing a stir."

He snorted. "Damn, I that transparent?"

Her lips twitched in a way that had him wanting to capture them between his. "Brazenly so," she said, trace of mock disapproval in her tone. "Really James, you ought to see someone about that. I hear magi-therapists do wonders."

"Sure," he deadpanned, "I'll pencil that in between my 'expressing open emotions' workshop and interpretive dance lessons."

Sara's fingers curled against his pectorals in retaliatory fashion, chocolate and blue eyes dancing in the candlelight. " _Ass._ "

He lowered his face to hers until his brow thudded against hers. "Thought antagonization was our thing?"

She nuzzled his nose with her own, words a murmured mess. "Mmmm, heard therapy does wonders for that too."

"So Hermione keeps telling me."

Sara pulled marginally back to quirk a curious eyebrow, and it rapidly occurred to his imbecilic ass that mentioning another woman while he was still _inside_ a different one probably hadn't been his best move. "I didn't mean-"

"You're not suave," she told, interrupting. She donned a calculating expression, drumming her fingers against his chest once, twice. "But that's okay. It wouldn't suit you."

He chuckled throatily. "So glad I could pass my post-coital review."

Sara actually laughed.

Every nerve within him was cursedly aware that he was still buried inside her. The slightest motion of her form as she laughed did things to him, things that had him outright shudder. It was abrupt, almost violent. Sara trembled in response. She'd felt it too, letting out a small whine.

He choked down air and grabbed at the back of her neck, waiting for sanity to return. His fingers traced pointless, idle patterns against her vertebrate, Sara's doing the same against his chest.

Neither made a move to move away.

By now the howl of the storm had turned to white noise in his ears.

Neither spoke for a long time, and that was okay. Harry preferred simplicity; he wasn't overly keen to talk. Ginny had always made him talk. She'd seen sex as an excuse for deep, purposeful conversations. But Harry…

Right now he was content to simply look.

Enjoy.

Kiss.

Green eyes roamed over Sara's face.

He'd been right, of course. His initial assessment had not been wrong. She was plain, infuriatingly so. Her nose was perfectly ordinary: not too large, but neither was it particularly small. Regal, perhaps, but not in a way that allowed her face to exude the symmetry common in recognized beauties. Not like Ginny's had been. No. Sara's was simply there, a part of her face, neither beautiful nor ugly. Her cheekbones rose high, but not high enough to be significant. The shape of her face, the slope of her chin…they were extraordinarily unmemorable. Yet those unnatural eyes and the long, thick lashes framing them, and that silky dark hair…

She entranced him. Her rebellious essence drew him. His breathing hitched.

Her very naked form pressed beneath him also probably had something to do with that.

The hard part of his throat rose and fell with nerves. They got worse as Sara's hand found the side of his face, fingertips sliding down the rough three day's growth. The witch was tracing his jawline, his cheek, the feel of her fingertips against the stubble of his face sending an unbidden shudder through him. He responded in kind, his hand sliding to the side of her face, holding her there. "Shit, Sara…"

Her eyes held his with open question.

"You know exactly," he muttered, "what you're doing to me, don't you?"

The brunette bit down on her lower lip, an impish gleam in her eyes.

He shifted to get a better look, and when he did he slid out of her. His dick, cold in the open air, throbbed at the loss of contact with her. He grunted, unhappy, but he didn't look away.

He was too busy staring at those dark lashes, that black ring around her iris, the bright blues and contrasting browns warring. It was hypnotic.

"Your eyes," he breathed hard, "they're fucking distracting." They were almost hard to look at. They were strange, asymmetrical. Fuck, Sara was far from pretty.

But he liked it.

The tiniest flash of hesitance entered her expression, vanishing with a breath. "Distracting you say?" she said innocently, as if she hadn't the faintest idea what he meant. "I can't imagine why."

Harry let out a guttural growl that had her full on smile.

He'd seen all kinds of eyes before. Madame Hooch's hawk-like ones; Voldemort's snake-like ones; red eyes on a Death Eater and black as night eyes on Snape; hazel eyes with flecks of browns and greens and blues on Lupin and color changing ones on Tonks; but he'd never seen eyes that didn't match.

Harry lifted his hand, hesitating, before dropping it against the side of her face with great, great caution. His fingers then brushed against the corner of her left eye, feeling her eyelashes brush the pad of his thumb. "How?" he asked.

If she harbored any fear at having his hand so close to her retinas she didn't show it. The door rattled, the knob shaking from a particularly large flood surge, but neither of them paid it any attention.

"It's a gene mutation," she said. "Heterochromia."

His jaw line curved in a smile. "That's cute," he said, "that you think I know what that means."

Sara's lips twitched. "Mmm, James is good in a crisis but bad with books," she mused aloud, taking pity and expounding, "My genes are a mosaic, they expressed differently so…" She batted her eyes at him in exaggerated fashion. "I'm stuck with these."

Right. She hadn't expounded enough.

Harry felt himself frowning. "Mosaic?"

He half expected a scolding, but she just smiled. "You know how blue eyes are caused by recessive genes?" she said, waiting for his nod. "You have two alleles per gene. You need two blue eyed alleles for those to express. You only need one brown eyed though for brown. I obviously have a brown eyed allele since, well…" she tapped her finger rather near _his_ eye now in silent explication.

He got it. She had a golden-brown shade in both her irises. But the rest…the rest were blue.

Two different, incredibly vibrant shades of blue, like the Caribbean fucking sea.

Malachite eyes shifted over hers. "So how does that explain you?"

She gave a one shouldered shrug, a small strap of her torn bra still clinging to it. "I honestly don't know. The pigment in my irises didn't fully express itself. Since it didn't, I wound up like this." She paused. "If it had, my eyes would be brown, and you wouldn't find me nearly so appealing."

She said it without malice. It was a simple statement, nothing more.

He still snorted. "Unlikely."

Sara arched a single, dark eyebrow.

He shot her a mildly annoyed look. "Fine," he admitted, "maybe at first. But soon as you opened your mouth that whole lack of interest thing would have ended."

"Oh?" Laughter danced in her eyes, the scent of candles prevalent in the room. "So you're saying you're a man who likes when I talk? My, my James you are a conundrum."

That mildly annoyed look turned into a full on glare, one he didn't mean. "Wench."

"Ass."

He snorted, his fingers gently, almost reverently tracing against the corner of her eye.

"You want to know something interesting?"

"Might as well," he said, "not exactly going anywhere."

"Then take a guess what color eyes are less common than heterochromia."

It didn't take a Hermione-level of intelligence to guess where this was headed. "You're taking the mickey."

She gave another one of those one shouldered shrugs. "Three percent of the population has _some_ degree of heterochromia. There's several types. Maybe not so obvious, but…only two percent of the population has green, James." Her eyes flickered over his. "And they're not even _that_ green. Yours though…"

A smug expression tugged at his jaw. "Take it you like."

She said nothing, but the way her fingers flexed against his chest…

Merlin he may die during this storm after all, but it wouldn't be the inclement weather that killed him.

He liked this; he liked her.

"You're beautiful," he said quietly, and to his shock…he meant it.

But Sara…

Sara reacted as if she'd been struck , expression falling. Instant.

Before she had been relaxed, like a cat splayed out before a warm fire. She'd been content, docile.

Now distrust crossed her features, her eyes guarded. The abrupt change…

Harry didn't get it.

A chill shot through him, and Harry's heart thudded unpleasantly in his chest.

He waited.

She was quiet for a long while.

"I think we both know," she finally imparted, "that's not true."

It took him a second. It took him a long second.

Sara didn't believe him; Sara saw herself that way.

His mind spun.

A dagger of guilt shot through him, given that until an hour ago he'd thought the same.

He had to fix that. "I wouldn't have said it," he told, tone calm, serious, "if it wasn't true."

Sara fixed him with an almost pitying look, sliding her hand down his chest. "Sure you wouldn't have."

Even her words were condolatory.

His hands on her went still. Very, very still. "Why exactly," he asked, a bit strained, "would I lie?"

Her eyes were clear and open and honest. "I don't think you're lying intentionally, James. Perhaps just being a bit complimentary because of…" she trailed off, looking down to where their hips remained pressed together.

He felt a surge of discontent.

And then that surge became a flood.

"I'm not prone to shagging random women, Sara. I wouldn't have done this if I didn't find you attractive and at least mildly interesting."

"Oh? So I'm only mildly interesting then?" The words should have been biting, but fuck it all she sounded amused.

He wasn't.

"That's _not_ what I meant." He could practically taste the fierceness, his hand sliding to the side of her face, looking into her eyes, wanting her to _get_ it.

She didn't.

Her eyes shot back up to his, surprised. Her lips parted in an expression he couldn't quite read. "James," she paused, "you don't have to make this into something it's not."

It took a second.

It took a few.

Then just like that Harry _got_ it.

It sunk in.

It sunk in deep.

"Something it's not…" he repeated.

His tone turned cold, and something inside him did too.

"Tell me Sara, what exactly is this then?"

He'd just met her: he grasped that. But he'd meant that he didn't have random sex with just anyone.

He'd fucking _meant_ it.

Sara blinked like a startled fawn. "What?"

His heartbeat pounded loud in his ears. "I said," he ground through gritted teeth, "what exactly do you think this is?"

Now she looked completely and totally confused. "I'm pretty sure it's sex, James."

He didn't know what he'd been expecting.

Maybe he was an imbecile. Maybe he'd read into it. Maybe he shouldn't have.

"Ah."

Now Sara looked a little worried. "Well that," she said, touching his arm, "and a mutual appreciation for each other's eyes." Her words came out gentler, teasing.

But Harry was no longer in the mood for teasing.

His eyes sharpened like daggers. "Do you seriously think we wound up on the floor just because I think you have pretty eyes?"

"I don't know," she said. "I suppose…I figured your breakup probably had something to do with it too."

Harry's chest tightened, instantly. "Rebound sex? That's what you think?"

His throat vibrated, utterly flat.

Sara frowned. "Well," she said hesitantly, "you did make it a point to say you were here on vacation, a poorly timed one, thanks to a girl."

He didn't respond right away. Harry heard her. He heard exactly what she said.

It explained why he went rigid.

"Oh," he said.

Her expression fell. "James…"

Until that moment Harry'd been unaware words could still sting. Hell, he'd had enough rejection in life to be near impervious, hadn't he?

Apparently not.

"James, are you-"

"It's fine," he said flatly. "It was just sex. Rebound sex. Because you think I'd use you for nothing other than that."

Quite suddenly she looked distressed. "No. James, _no_ that's not what I meant."

"Alright," he bit, voice tight, "so how did you mean it?" He gave her a chance. He gave her one hell of a damn chance to explain that, hoping she would.

But she didn't.

Instead she stayed silent, her lips parting, closing, as if uncertain what to say.

There'd been a point when he'd sworn she'd called him Harry.

At the time he hadn't given a solitary damn, but now…

With cold clarity he understood. He knew why she'd willing to give him this. To give herself to him. To let him, a complete stranger, take her virginity. One she'd thought was on the rebound. One for whom this would have been meaningless. One who no witch in their right mind should have wanted.

But she had let him anyway, because she knew who he was.

She was just like the others, wanting to bag the fucking Boy-Who-Lived.

Ginny had never cared about that.

Deep inside he felt a hot swell of guilt.

He felt sick.

Sara looked at him entreatingly, and suddenly he found her to be a lot less pretty. "James please…"

"Know what?" he bit. "We should talk less."

And without another word he shoved himself up, off her. He was careful not to hurt her, but he avoided her eyes.

Then he summoned his clothes with a wandless move. Distracted, he didn't even notice.

Deep inside his chest ached.

Harry remained silent, and so did she.

It took longer than he was proud of to remember that they were trapped.

* * *

_**EYHORH** _

* * *

**Author's Note:** So, what did everyone think? Thoughts? Constructive critiques?


	4. In Which Wally Eats Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sara, how'd you get that scar?"  
> She looked at him without a trace of malice. "Same as how most people got their scars, James. The Battle of Hogwarts."

**Chapter 4 ~ In Which Wally Eats Harry**

* * *

"Names have power."

~ Rick Riordan

* * *

The phrase 'drive by banging' suddenly made a hell of a lot of sense.

Harry was halfway to dragging on his boxers, his back to her, when he heard movement. He heard Sara move, and he damn well hoped she wasn't going to come to him and try to do something asininely stupid, like try to touch him and 'explain.'

Really, it seemed like something Hermione might do.

But Sara sure as fuck wasn't Hermione.

He'd asked her what she'd meant by it. He'd _asked_. She hadn't said. In fact, Sara still hadn't said a fucking word. So here he was, trapped with a witch who'd just hero-worship-banged him, and she was one of those oh-so-special pathologically lying variants.

And a criminal.

Well shit, Harry really did know how to pick them. First a chick that was hung up on a dead guy, one he'd personally gotten killed; then one that he'd waited for a damn year on the run for, only to get left the second a bunch of Americans waggled some shiny new broomsticks and a galleon bag at her, engagement ring in the desk be damned; and now this.

It was official. It was time to become celibate. He'd shave his head and become a reclusive Buddhist. He'd heard Tibet was nice this time of year. So hey, at least he had that to look forward to.

For now his ass was trapped, at least till the storm was over. Harry hissed a breath through his teeth and contemplated punching something. Unfortunately he had no way of knowing what was animated and what wasn't, so unless he wanted to get eaten alive that wasn't an option. He seriously hoped Tibetan Buddhists didn't take vows of non-violence. He'd be fucked if that were the case.

Speaking of fucked he needed his damn jeans, which were conveniently behind him, which meant he needed to turn around to get them. He'd dropped his damn wand at some point during…

Well, _during_.

Sara still hadn't said a fucking word, and right now looking at her was the last fucking thing he wanted to do.

He did it anyway.

That sick feeling hit him in the center of the gut like a well-aimed bludger.

Sara was sitting, still naked, looking anywhere but at him. Her legs were bent up at the knees, drawn up, her arms crossed protectively over her chest as if she wanted concealed, yet lacked the energy to grab her clothes a few meters off.

Had he been less pissed he might have cared that she looked oddly vulnerable.

Hell of it was he _did_ care, and that was the entire problem.

Ron should have gotten trapped with this chick. If Ron had just taken point when they'd stormed that damn clinic, then Harry would have wound up on Hermione's side of the ceiling collapse, and Ron would have wound up with Sara. And Ron would have kept it in his pants. Harry absolutely-fucking-guaranteed it, if only because his best mate knew that if he ever stepped out of line with Hermione, that the witch was bound to cut _it_ off. Harry knew this for a fact; he'd been present for the argument.

Somehow thinking about Ron becoming a eunuch didn't exactly help.

Right. The three of them shared way too fucking much.

He needed new friends.

But hey, at least he had the Buddhists to look forward to.

He'd grabbed his jeans and was about to drag them on when Wally made an appearance.

An eye opened in the floor directly in front of him. It stared up at him, blinking, then swiveled in the direction where Harry could only assume Sara still sat.

Sara, who was upset. Sara, who had just _used_ him. He felt betrayed. He felt gutted. How quick this had all gone to hell.

A shaky sound broke the silence. "James, could you just-"

"Don't," he bit harshly, wanting her to shut up so he could think. "Just don't."

He never saw how stricken, upset his words made her.

But he did see Wally. Wally's eye swiveled back to him.

Harry stared it down, irritated. "What? You too?"

That round eye turned malevolent, narrowing in the deepest glare he had ever received from an inanimate object.

And then that eye turned red.

Harry had half a second to realize that something very bad was about to happen.

Years of Quidditch, Harry hunting, Voldemort stalking, Auror training, and dodging Hermione's thrown books saved his ass.

He reacted a split second before a mouth with extremely sharp teeth opened up in the floor, directly beneath where he'd been standing. He threw his jeans at its damn eye, then threw himself out of the way, kicking one of those candles at it, hoping a burn to the lens would distract it.

All of that did absolutely fucking nothing.

The eye slammed shut and the mouth moved, shooting across the floor towards him with lightning speed.

And given they were sealed inside a glorified metal box, there wasn't exactly a lot of room to run.

Harry tried anyway, diving out of the way and rolling onto his shoulder, watching as 'Wally's' snapping teeth slammed into the far wall. Harry came up in a crouch, having snared his wand off the floor, the wizard leveling it at the edifice, blasting curse half formed-

"Explu-"

Sara's bare foot slammed into his wrist and knocked his wand loose, Harry cussing a word that would have had Hermione stop speaking to him for _weeks_. He rounded on Sara, _pissed,_ only to find her attention not on him.

She had scrambled to her feet, her hands held up, palms out, speaking in a placating voice. "Wally _stop_. He didn't mean it…"

"The hell I didn't."

The brunette didn't look at him. She didn't so much as cast a glance back over her bare shoulder, so Harry couldn't see the full extent of her expression.

But from the side he did see her wince.

From all around him emanated a low, blood curdling growl.

Right. Big mistake.

The wall opposite him opened up, a large mouth widening, growing. Metal incisors gleamed sharply, and it snapped shut in pointed threat.

Harry lunged for his wand, slamming against the ground, only for the floor beneath him to fly up like a ripple in water, knocking it out of the way. He cursed, rolling, but something sharp and deadly sliced against his upper arm.

A smear of blood was left in his wake, marring the perfectly polished floor.

The pain shot through him a second later. From his shoulder all the way down to his fingers.

"WALLY STOP!"

Harry slammed into the farthest wall, alongside the thrumming refrigerator.

Behind him the wall rippled, Harry spinning-

The deadly mouth opened up, two eyes peering menacingly down at him.

Harry hauled off and punched it right in the pupil.

The entire shack howled.

"JAMES!"

He spared a second to shoot her a look. "He's trying to eat me!"

"Well you are being a bit of an ass!"

Harry backpedaled to the opposite side of the room and nearly tripped on one of the everlasting candles still rolling around. "Me? You're the one who just screwed me because of status!"

Sara gaped.

She gaped in such a way that she honestly looked confused, like she'd been hit with back-to-back confounding hexes. "Status? What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

Typically when he was in a fight for his life he could compartmentalize. Hell, he prided himself on it. But right now he split his attention between the room at large and her, which he sure as fuck shouldn't be doing when something was trying to kill him. His traitorous lizard brain looked at Sara anyway.

Her still being very,very naked probably had something to do with it.

And the instant he did Harry realized that every micro-expression she had positively screamed that she honestly had no idea what he was talking about.

His stomach plummeted. Had a very angry shack not been hell-bent on eating him he might have even considered apologizing. As it was he trained his attention back on where he'd last seen the eyeball and teeth disappear, the entire shack disturbingly silent. Harry spun in a tense, tight circle, establishing his own perimeter.

But it didn't mean he wasn't going to continue this conversation.

"No one gives up their fucking virginity if they think they're just a rebound, Sara," he said, and there was not a trace of empathy in his voice. "I heard what you called me when-"

"I know what I called you!" she snapped. Sara had dropped to the ground, rifling through her clothing, somewhat frantic, her naked ass in full view. "But I'm sorry, _James_ , it's a bit hard to not call you that after seven freaking-"

He blanched, realization hitting him like a bludger. "You can't possibly mean-"

"You're right. It was six. You bailed when ole snake-face-"

"You went to fucking _Hogwarts_?!"

"Oh, was that what that big Scottish castle was called? Must have slipped my mind thanks to the mind-blowing sex and the cold as ice follow up."

He sputtered at her.

Outright sputtered.

Sara found what she was looking for and with a distinctly irritated, "Finally!" emerged from the pile of clothes, still shockingly naked but now with a wand held aloft in her hand.

Harry's insides felt like they were on a damn spin cycle. He was prevented from demanding further answers by the low, guttural growl directly above him. It was one of those hungry growls predators made mid-hunt, the kind that instilled all kinds of warm, fuzzy, comforting feelings of safety.

_Yeah right._

He reacted on instinct, dropping into a crouch, ducking and pointing his-

Shit. He didn't have his wand. Sara had kicked it out of his hand.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck!_

"Potter!"

Harry's head jerked in her direction.

A wand sailed to him.

He snagged it out of mid-air just in time to snap a freezing hex at the teeth dropping down. Harry threw himself flat to the ground, the cavernous jaw snapping shut centimeters above his head, only _just_ missing him. In the process he bashed his head against the cold steel, everything blurring and spinning.

A piece of dark black hair floated down, landing directly in front of his nose.

It was a testament to the near miss.

Everything had gone eerily silent.

His arm fucking hurt.

Harry lay there in a damn heap and shifted his attention from his would-be-killer back to the witch he'd just shagged and apparently attended six years of formative education with. Harry stared at Sara, and blinked.

"You weren't in Gryffindor."

After all of that it was all he could come up with.

Sara ignored him. Hell, Sara didn't just ignore him; she looked right past him towards Wally's shark-like snappers, the entire ceiling warped and dented down directly towards the top of his skull. A contemplative look marred her face. "We can't leave Wally like this for long."

Ah, so they were back to this ignoring one another thing.

Grand.

He scoffed, somewhat irately. He figured he was entitled though, given her pet building had just tried to kill him and all.

Sara heard and her eyes shot to his, the witch waving at the frozen jaw. "He can't exactly defend himself _or_ us from the storm if he's laid up, James."

His head gave a concussive-like buzz.

Then, as if hearing flies buzzing inside his head wasn't enough, his arm gave several cruel, angry throbs that made what his ex-girlfriend had done to his heart seem fucking saintly, and blood welled steadily out of it like the gaping wounds Ginny'd left behind.

He couldn't wait to get some celibate Buddhists in his life.

Sara was still eyeing Wally as if he'd kicked her puppy. "James, we have to unfreeze him."

With slow, methodical movements Harry dropped a hand onto his upper arm, clenching against his wound to staunch the flow of blood. "Think we're past fake names, Sara. Reckon you can drop it."

Her eyes practically flashed. "Yeah well maybe I _liked_ James." She shook her head, wisps of fringy dark hair falling into her eyes, her next words muttered beneath her breath. "He was certainly nicer."

"I'm perfectly nice," he grunted.

She looked at him with a rather evaluating expression. "Maybe to your close friends," she allowed, "but certainly not to anyone else."

That good feeling he'd had earlier, at being around someone who didn't know him, who didn't have any pre-formed conceptions about him from the papers or worse – Skeeter – evaporated like Voldemort's ashy remains in the wind. "So I have trust issues. Can't imagine why."

"Think it went a bit beyond trust issues, James. In fact some psychiatric conditions come to mind…"

Harry's fingers clenched around his tricep and he contemplated punching something. Mainly the shack since it couldn't currently fight back. "You realize it's easy to be nice to people," he challenged, "when you're not being used. But when you are makes it a bit damn difficult. So really, which one of us is the ass again?"

Her mouth opened, full lips parting in righteous indignation. He didn't care. He didn't have it in himself to. She stared at him in wordless silence, then let out a frustrated sound, spinning on her bare foot – from his spot on the floor he couldn't help but notice how nice that foot was – before stomping back to the pile of clothes.

She snatched up her jeans with vehemence, and began squirming into them. He sat there, breathing like he'd just run a damn kilometer, and tried not to stare. He tried. But the traitorous witch's shapely legs squirming, wiggling into that dark fabric…

He clenched his gaze shut and let some soothing waves of pain distract him.

As it was he didn't see her face when she spoke, but her tone was damn near glacial.

"I don't know what you think I'm using you for," she said icily, "but screw you."

"Seems you already did."

Sara went silent. The pattering and howling against the outer shutters continued, but that….that was the only sound to be heard.

Unscrewing his eyes he fixed her backside with a dark look. Sara had gone still. She stood there with her back to him, clad in only jeans and nothing else. The artful curve of her spine, her long, chestnut hair sweeping down her shoulders…

Minutes before he'd been reveling in her. Now…

Now he was antagonizing her. He was hurt.

He never saw Sara's eyes closed, or heard the choked note in her voice. "Go to hell."

Until then he'd been on his side, but at that he flipped onto his back to stare straight up, muttering, "Gladly."

The storm howled. The entire building shuddered as if destabilized. Something creaked.

He could literally feel the blood welling up between his fingers.

He had larger things to worry about. Like the fact that he was not just trapped with a chick he'd just screwed, but was trapped in an animate building that now wanted to kill him. Harry stared straight up at the ceiling and assessed the situation. Above him by less than a meter was 'Wally'. Frozen. Jaws wide. Steel triangles protruded out of it at every angle, and he could only assume those were its crudely fashioned teeth.

The creature had warped the literal ceiling, punching straight through in its rather enthusiastic attempt to bite him in half.

It rather looked like a Muggle pins games Dudley used to have. As kids his cousin had slammed it against Harry's face more than once, leaving a distinct imprint of his round glasses and face emerging on the other side, Dudley proudly showing Uncle Vernon, the two riotously laughing at the 'geekish freak.'

The difference between that game and this was that this one had teeth as big as his fucking hands.

He didn't have a damn clue how long the charm would hold. He hadn't exactly ever had cause to use it on a building before.

"Looking a bit buck toothed there, Wals," he croaked dryly. "Might charm some braces on your arse for my next trick."

Something hit the floor, clattering and rolling.

"You're hurt."

Reasonably certain that Wally wasn't about to spring to life in the next thirty seconds, Harry closed his eyes and heaved a derisive breath. "Damn what gave it away? The drive by banging or the recent murder attempt?"

Sara hissed in a convincing impersonation of a serpent. "And you wonder why people don't think you're nice."

He ignored that. "Ah, it was the bloody pool, wasn't it?" With a grimace he thunked the back of his head to the ground, adding dryly, "Apologies for messing up your interior design."

"I liked you better before you started talking."

He scowled, feeling warm blood trickling down his upper arm, rolling to the floor. "This wouldn't have happened," he felt the need to point out, "if you hadn't disarmed me." Cracking his gaze, he shot a look at the wand clenched between his hand and his bloodied arm, and dimly realized that it was definitely not made of Holly wood.

It wasn't his wand, or rather his replacement wand after Nagini had snapped his, but he should have known that the second he'd cast a spell with it.

Damn his head hurt.

Sara dropped down alongside him, her distracting eyes darting all over him. At the very least she'd put on her shirt, much good as it did him. The thing was torn clear down the front, and all that remained were glorified strips of white fabric.

She also was missing her bra.

It barely covered her breasts.

Being in the hospitable mood he was, what with her head between him and Wally's chompers, he scoffed, "Forget how to get dressed?"

Her eyes shot to his, lips parted in abject shock. She was silent a second. Then another. "No wonder Voldemort wanted to kill you. You're an unbelievable ass."

He snorted. "And to think, thought you liked my ass."

"Oh I have no complaints about that. It's just the head it's attached to that's the problem." She shook her own, dark hair spilling around her features.

Then she reached towards his hand, her intent to reclaim her wand clear.

Harry jerked it away, Sara's fingers freezing mid-air where his arm had just been.

"Potter I need my wand."

"Oh yeah, because I'm going to just hand you my only means of protection from your little pet there." He nodded towards the gaping maws of death looming above. Seriously, for all he knew his wand had been ate.

If he'd broken a third wand in less than a year he was never going to hear the fucking end of it. Ollivanders was already mad at him enough.

Sara was oblivious to his thoughts and shot a look up at Wally, her nose wrinkling in annoyance. "He'll behave," she promised. "He just doesn't take too kindly to people insulting me. So unless you want to just lay there and bleed out, I'd suggest you relinquish it so I can do something about that _._ "

He _was_ losing a concerning amount of blood…

Not to mention it felt like a small animal had burrowed deep inside his skull to engage in a deep-neural-dive, one that involved chiseling its way down to his brain stem with a rusty ice pick.

With an annoyed growl he shoved the bloodied hunk of wood at her. "Why in the fuck did you kick my wand away in the first place?" His head gave a dull throb. "And where is it?"

The witch eyed her red-spotted wand in mild distaste, then shot him a strange look. "Merlin you are concussed. I thought you were smarter than this." A second later she'd flicked it with a swift, "Accio!"

Mentally he kicked himself for not doing the summoning charm first. Shit. He really had hit his head hard.

Not that he would admit this.

A far more familiar colored wood flew into her hand, Sara catching it and shoving it at him. "There you go, you big baby. Your security blanket is nice and safe."

Harry grabbed the wand and glared. "You still didn't answer my question."

With delicate fingers Sara shoved her hair out of her face and tucked it back behind her ears. "You can't just fire exploding curses in here, Potter," she said coldly, as if talking to a small child. "You'd blow a hole in the hull. And in case it's escaped your notice the only thing between us and death by Hurricane Mitch is Wally." She paused, her eyes moving from his wound back to his sharp green ones. "Seriously he's the _only_ thing keeping us safe."

"You and I have very different definitions of safe."

She laughed; the sound was incredibly cold.

Then she grabbed his sleeve with a curt order to 'hold still' and began a succession of spells that had his skin flat out searing. Her fingers dug against his flesh to hold him still, that cursed tingling radiating out from wherever she touched. He hated that. It'd be a lot easier if it'd go away. Instead he was about ready to crawl out of his own skin.

Sara finished and promptly dropped her hold on his arm.

And then she rapped him on the temple. Hard. A wooshing sound filled his ears and the pain in his skull abated. That little creature that'd been attempting to chisel its way out promptly curled into a ball and died. Fuzziness he hadn't even noticed left. Hell, it suddenly got a whole lot easier to think.

Shit. That was three times Sara'd healed him.

Though Harry was damn certain she'd rapped him on the head just a bit harder than necessary when performing that healing spell.

He wisely picked his battles and didn't mention it. Instead he experimentally flexed his injured arm, testing it out.

To his damn surprise it actually worked.

"Shit," he muttered, "trainee or not you're pretty decent at this."

She said nothing in response to the compliment. She remained kneeling alongside where he lay sprawled out, studying him with a worried frown that reminded him of Mrs. Weasley. "You really need to stop injuring the same arm in the same place, James," she eventually said. "Spells can only do so much. Eventually you'll wind up with permanent injury."

Then she brushed her hands off on her jeans, making to stand-

For reasons he still couldn't explain to this fucking day his hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist. He was still breathing hard from the pain of her spells, but he offered her a slightly less hostile grimace.

Slightly being the key term.

"Thanks."

She stared at him like a deer in headlights, her eyes darting from his down to where his hand held her wrist and back up again. Her ample chest rose, visible and distracting. "I'm training to be a Healer, Potter. It's sort of my prerogative to not let people bleed out in front of me." She paused. Something in her expression changed, and when she spoke her words were like dry ice. "No matter how much that person used me."

She yanked her wrist away from him, and it took Harry's recently injured head a second to process that.

He scrambled to go after her. "Wait, you think _I_ used _you_?"

Sara stopped and spun to face him, her face disturbingly close to one of Wally's unnervingly large teeth. "Yes."

"Oh that's rich." He was on his feet now, standing on the opposite side of the monster shack's face. Unlike her he was giving it and its teeth a wide berth. "You lied to me about who you were."

She met his eyes plainly. "So did you."

Well shit.

Her face tilted, curious, hair falling over her shoulders as she peered at him from around Wally's monstrous maw. "Why are you so convinced that I used you, Potter?"

_Potter._

She'd finally called him by name. He didn't like it.

For some indescribable reason with her he preferred James.

"Well?" she demanded, impatient.

It occurred to him in that second that there was no way to answer without sounding like an arrogant asshole. He tensed. "You seriously have to ask?"

"Obviously."

Frustrated he drug a hand through his hair and stared at her. "Ever since Voldemort half the wizarding world's female populace has been trying to get into my pants to snare the so-called wizarding 'savior'." He made air quotes with the hand not currently engaged in trying to yank his hair out of his scalp. "So call me damn dumb, but when someone knows me yet lies about who they are, then sleeps with me, it's a bit hard not to draw that conclusion."

"So you think I was doing the same."

"Weren't you?"

He'd practically spat the words.

Like before he wanted to know, desperately.

Something unreadable entered her eyes, the witch shaking her head slowly. "No, but…" Wetting her lips, eyes searching his, she murmured, "Though I suppose you won't believe that."

"Probably not," he admitted.

Sara nodded, something peculiar in her expression. She gathered the sides of her torn shirt together and pulled them protectively over her chest. "Alright." She moved away, towards the pile of discarded clothing, clothing he'd wanted her out of an hour prior, clothing they hadn't been able to get off fast enough.

Staring at the empty space where she'd just been, it took Harry a full minute to realize that her voice had been shaking.

And so had her fingers.

Fingers pulling at her torn shirt to cover herself.

A pit of dread welled into his stomach.

She'd tugged her shirt around herself, like she was afraid.

Of _him._

Shit.

Something hard and lumpy filled his throat. "Sara."

He turned around and found her crouched alongside that clothing pile, up-righting one of the everlasting candles that had fallen over. The wick had been dangerously close to setting his shirt aflame. She said nothing, studiously keeping her face averted, and Harry…

Harry tried again. "Sara," he said with more authority, "look at me."

She did not, but her fingers had gone very still upon the candle, her pointer finger absently picking at a piece of errant, dried wax.

He didn't trust this girl. He didn't like her. He was furious with her. But inside a dark part of him that sounded oddly like Lupin growled that it was disappointed, because it'd never expected this of him.

He'd officially become his father.

He was being an ass to a girl he liked.

Well…liked. Emphasis on the past tense.

God damn't.

His chest wrenched, and it wasn't a good wrenching. When he'd been getting attacked she'd sounded genuinely confused. He didn't get it. She'd said it was _just_ sex. He didn't know what to think, his vocal cords vibrating without reason or his consent.

"Prove me wrong."

The building shook around them in disturbing fashion. Neither noticed. But when he spoke Harry sure as hell noticed how she stopped picking at the wax, letting her hand fall away from the candle and its never-melting wax and wick, dangling limply at her side.

It was like all fight had been drained out of her.

"About _what_?" she said at last, sounding tired.

Harry wasn't sure how to go about this. He was still justly pissed. But he didn't want some girl he'd just met and screwed thinking of him like…however she was thinking of him, no matter what she'd lied about.

So he steeled himself and kept his words flat, devoid of emotion. "You said you weren't using me," he reminded. "Prove me wrong."

Sara glanced at him over her shoulder, but her eyes were damn near arctic. That spark, that mischievous glint she'd had before, had been extinguished.

His stomach bottomed out.

"No point, James. You already made it crystal clear that'd be a colossal waste of time."

"It's _not_."

Sara looked away.

Then she reached out and snared her hand in his jeans, throwing them blindly to him. "Put some clothes on, Potter. You look ridiculous."

He caught them mid-air. She still refused to turn towards him. She still refused to look directly at him. She still wore only that torn shirt, no jacket, no bra.

He stood there and made no move to get dressed. "Where's your bra, Sara?"

A soft scoff filled the silence. "It appears someone tore it off. Bit useless now."

He winced. Well, he had been a bit terse about it. "You any good at fabric mending charms?"

"I'm complete rubbish. Take it you're the same?"

Harry grimaced. He was more likely to set it on fire. "Understatement."

"Ah."

Hell, they'd spoken almost civilly.

Silence descended again. At some point he'd drug his jeans back on, shirt still missing, but his eyes never once left her. Inevitably Sara let out a sigh, rising to her feet with her leather coat clutched in hand. She held it over her chest, once more looking straight past him towards Wally. It was like Harry was invisible. It was like he wasn't even there.

For some reason Harry hated that.

"We'll have to unfreeze him," she said quietly, as if he hadn't heard her every other time she'd said it. She lifted her wand-

He launched several steps forward and grabbed onto her wrist, grip firm but gentle, pushing her arm decisively down.

It felt like lightning. The instant his skin touched hers. He sucked a breath between gritted teeth, and judging from the breath Sara hissed she'd felt it to.

Just sex his ass.

Harry's heart hammered against his ribcage. "How about," he spoke lowly, fingers flexing against her pulse point, "we don't go and set loose animate monsters hell bent on eating me? Know you're pissed, but reckon feeding me to your pet is a bit much."

She didn't look at him. She made it a point not to, words hollow. "I'll take care of it, Potter. He's not going to. You just…" she swallowed. "You caught him…both of us, off guard."

Beneath his fingers he could feel Sara's radial pulse beating wildly. His own thundered. And he'd caught her off guard?

"You're the one," he reminded slowly, carefully, "that said it was just sex."

Her eyes flashed, flickering up. "Wasn't it?"

He gave her a hard stare. "You accused me of using you as a rebound."

"Yes well," her gaze shot away, and a small, bitter smile tugged at her lips, "better that then to find out I was and get hurt by it." Her eyes remained downcast. "You'll forgive me for not being more trusting."

A rippling, tight tension crawled through him.

A year ago he wouldn't have understood. It had taken months of Ministry-mandated psychotherapy, something all the newly recruited war veterans in the Auror department were undergoing, for him to have the mental wherewithal to understand what she meant. But he did. Fuck, he did.

So when he spoke he kept his voice level. "You're seriously claiming," he said, "that all of that shit was a defense mechanism?"

She said nothing. Her expression said it all.

He took a deep breath. "Can't say I'm sorry, Sara. I'm still pissed." She opened her mouth to no doubt scoff something angry, but he cut her off, "But I'd rather like if you proved my ass wrong. Hell…" he grimaced, voice roughened, "you have no idea how much I'd like that."

And the hell of it was, that was true.

Judging from the way his pulse beat out of his control, that was _very_ true.

Harry waited with baited damn breath.

She said nothing; she had gone back to staring at the spot where his fingers wrapped around her small wrist, and eventually she extricated her arm from his.

The problem was when she wiggled her wrist to free it, it caused enough friction, enough tingling to have him closing his eyes and hissing air between his teeth.

It'd felt good.

It'd felt _too_ good.

And Harry was not the only one who'd hissed.

Neither said a word about it. Sara simply brushed past him towards Wally and his frozen fangs, brushing him off as if nothing had happened, as if his skin was not on literal fire from her merest touch.

He really hated Ginny right then. If it weren't for her his fucking emotions wouldn't be all over the place.

And Harry hated emotions. Hell, it'd been one of Ginny's primary complaints: that he didn't express himself strongly enough. He wasn't sure what counted as technical expression, but given he'd once strolled straight into the Forbidden Forest to take a killing curse straight to the chest, out of alleged love for everyone at the castle, he reckoned he'd expressed himself enough for at least the next decade.

Too bad Ginny hadn't felt the same way.

Truth be told he was still a bit fucked up from it all.

Sara appeared to be talking to animate objects again, her voice resigned. "I know…I realize I'm asking a lot," she was saying, "but please stop attacking him. It'll only make things worse. Besides, he's a Gryffindor. I imagine they taste awful."

Harry shot her a confounded look.

She absolutely did not apologize, instead hissing, "Finite!" at Wally.

Fuck.

Harry jerked back two or three or perhaps five steps. He was tense, waiting for the inevitable attack to resume.

Nothing happened.

Sara frowned and flicked her wand again, this time her nose crinkled in a look of the utmost concentration. " _Finite_!"

Still nothing.

"FINITE!"

Nothing.

"Finite!"

She cast him an irritated look. "Planning to just stand there until the storm caves Wally in and takes us out with him? Or are you just waiting for me to beg?"

It occurred to him that she couldn't actually undo his spell.

He couldn't help it: a smirk slid across his jawline. It was only a little smug. He worked his throat into something resembling speech. "Looks like your counter curses need work."

The glare she shot him was so icy it could have frozen the equator.

"I'll unfreeze him," he said, "but only if you agree to _talk_."

The witch stared at him as if he'd asked her to behead a small child.

"To me," he clarified, "in case it's not obvious."

The building gave a violent shudder, the everlasting candles all falling over simultaneously. One thunkered nearby and rolled dangerously near the clothing pile, and Harry shot out his leg to stop it with the ball of his foot.

He arched an eyebrow.

He pointedly waited.

Sara tried the counter curse again a half dozen times to no avail.

And then something dented, loudly, against the front door.

"Or you know," he said with feigned casualness, "we could just wait till the flood tosses a car through the East wall. Drown. Take up permanent residence in Wally as friggin' specters and chat then? Really, irritable thing might like the company."

The building made a strange sound.

Fucking hell it sounded hopeful.

Sara heard it to and looked horrified. "Okay fine," she snapped, spinning to face him. She gestured impatiently at Wally. "Will you just…please?"

Lips twitching he stalked forward, wand leveled towards the gaping jaws behind Sara's head. "Wally," he said, "I'm trusting you'll stop trying to take my head off so that Sara and I can actually talk. If you so much as take a damn nip at one of my toes I'll do more than just freeze you. Deal?" He waited, not sure what he was expecting, but hearing nothing he nodded. "I'll take your stony silence as agreement so….finite."

Magic crackled across steel.

The jaws slammed shut with a cavernous SLAM. It echoed loud and rolled across the room like a thunderwave.

Harry shot his hand out and jerked Sara away from it, the witch thudding forcefully against his chest as he stumbled back into the wall, Wally slamming into the floor-

The face disappeared.

From every wall around them came a distinct grumbling, rather like a displeased toddler.

And then the entire shack began to vibrate, as if tending to its wounds. Harry found himself breathing hard, a bit damn shocked that he wasn't re-engaged in a game of dodgem with metal spears. As it was, he had smacked against a wall, one of his arms snared tight around Sara's body, the witch breathing just as shakily.

Harry ground down a hard swallow. Sara peered up at him, her hands resting flat on his chest. He swallowed thickly, looking down at her.

Once again he felt like his heart was about to beat clear out of his chest. And Sara….

He'd never heard someone's breathing sound so shaken.

He wet his lips.

Sara moved.

With careful movements she slid out of his grip, eyes holding his. She took a careful, measured step backwards, as if determined to put some space between them.

Harry didn't know if he was glad for that or not.

The witch's eyes shifted, looking over his shoulder towards the wall behind him. "Thank you, Wally," she said quietly.

Another grumble.

But at least that grumble sent Sara smiling, albeit weakly.

Harry kicked himself. "Look, Sara-"

Her eyes tore to his, that annoyed look plastered right back on her face. "What have people done to you that's made you so…" she gestured at him, "paranoid?"

Both his eyebrows shot directly into his hairline. He couldn't even be angry. He was just darkly damn amused. "Seriously? You're asking me why I'm paranoid?"

She rolled her eyes. "About witches, James. Not dark freaking lords. Are you seriously just that arrogant or-"

Now a dagger of annoyance did seize him. "A bit," he snapped, "but I'm not exaggerating about how bad it's been, Sara. Even when I had a steady damn girlfriend they threw themselves at me. Can hardly fault me for logicking what I did based off what came out of your mouth."

She dismissed most of that. "Seems like more than just _a bit_ of arrogance."

He scowled and shoved himself off the wall, taking a step closer, closing that space she'd so determinedly put between them. Harry wasn't letting her get away that easily. He was trapped with her, for awhile, so they were having this out. She stiffened and every beautiful muscle in her perfect body went taut, but Sara made no attempt to step back again.

Harry was cognizant of the animate, angry shack that wanted to eat him. He was. But right now he gave zero fucks. He got right up on Sara, the heat palpable between them, and he wanted desperately – damn desperately – for her to take back every word she'd uttered. "No, it's not. Just facts. You have zero fucking idea Sara," he glowered, looking down into her face. "People who declared me unbalanced two years ago suddenly wanted me to marry their damn daughters. They wanted to trap me in marriage contracts. I lost count of the number of owl posts carrying them. Ginny got death threats! Hell, I had to stop going out to lunch with Ron and Hermione because the last time I did some bar maid slipped amortentia and fertility potion into my lager."

Sara met his eyes head on, betraying no emotion.

She was so close he could practically touch her.

"You didn't drink it, did you?"

"I'm an Auror who has a bunch of dark wizards who'd love to see me choke on my own blood for killing their favorite pet snake. What do you think?"

Her eyes subtly narrowed. "You check for poison before meals. Smart."

"Yeah well, after that incident had to expand my pre-meal spell repertoire a bit. Want to know what's irritating as fuck? Having to spend ten minutes testing your food before you consume it when your 'break' is only twenty."

"I'd imagine so," she said, not a trace of sympathy upon her lips.

Harry grimaced. "Your empathy is shocking."

"Can you blame me?"

He ignored the barb. "So why me? If not status then why would you pick me to throw down with?"

And there it was.

He wanted to know the answer rather desperately.

Sara's fingers clenched around her jacket, the leather still balled up and clutched before her chest. "I don't know. It wasn't like I was planning to run into you."

He'd allow her that. "Given I wasn't aware I was coming here till a few hours ago," he said dryly, "that'd have been quite the feat if you had." He paused. "Not to mention this vacation wasn't exactly willing."

Her eyes narrowed, wary. "Your friends don't understand the meaning of the word 'abduction' do they?"

"Doubtful for Ron. Hermione just doesn't care."

He didn't blink. He didn't back down. He just offered her a crude grimace.

"You're still waiting," she finally said, "for a reason."

Smooth as a predator he stayed motionless. "Yup."

"Would it be presumptuous to assume you'd care if I didn't want to talk about it?"

"See?" he encouraged. "You _are_ smart."

"Impersonating a mute always did seem appealing..."

"Go right ahead," he said smoothly. "Not going anywhere for awhile. Sure we can sit here in nice, stony silence while we wait for the storm to kill us."

Wally made an insulted sound.

It looked like she was warring with herself. Harry didn't miss how she tensed, how her fingers curled tighter around her jacket, the fabric blocking him from seeing her again, from seeing her fully. A small ring on her left index glinted in the dim light.

They both knew why there were there, standing so close together.

Ultimately that won out.

"I'm attracted to you, James. Obviously."

He grunted. "Not good enough."

No one, no witch, no woman gave themselves to a man they knew to be actively using them. Not for their first time. Not when they thought they were a rebound. Not ever. Not unless they were using them too.

He might not be overly experienced with women, let alone sex, but he knew enough to know that much.

And Sara knew that too.

Her expression grew unreadable, her eyes flashing like ice glinting in the winter sun.

"I don't regret taking your virginity, Sara. Not if you did it for the right reasons. But I think both you and I know they weren't."

He'd kept his expression carefully blank, to mirror hers, his voice neutral.

Sara wet her lips.

"It was my first time," she confirmed quietly.

"I know," he said unnecessarily. His eyes flicked towards her thighs, where a trace of blood had been from their coupling, it now hidden by her jeans. He felt a stab of concern. "Did I hurt you?"

Crystal clear blue and brown eyed him guardedly. She shook her head no, her response wordless.

A weight in his chest lifted. "Good. So why me?"

And this time, unlike the last three times he'd asked, Sara answered.

"I suppose," she admitted, dark lashes shifting over his face, "that it was better to be your rebound than the prize of one of the many suitors my father keeps trying to pawn me off on. Until a little bit ago I'd honestly thought I'd misjudged you back in school, that you really weren't an asshole."

His lips quirked wryly, but there was no warmth in the expression. "Yeah well, I'm just full of surprises."

He was surprised by how bitter he sounded.

He couldn't help but notice how her fingers trembled, clutching that jacket.

Strange that she'd gotten modest.

He wasn't an idiot though; he grasped why.

He'd made her feel exposed. Unease probably crawled through her veins, and he'd put that in her.

"So," he ventured, "you're a pureblood, aren't you?"

Now it was Sara's turn to sound bitter. "What gave it away? My non-troglodytic vernacular or not acting brutish after shagging?"

Dark green narrowed, subtly. "You sure that was your first time, Sara? Because you seem awfully comfortable tossing out venom about this for a-" he stopped before he said it.

"For a virgin? You know you can say it without making it sound like I've got some contagious pathogen."

Harry half-wanted to laugh; he also felt a cold ball of iron form in his gut. "So that was it then? Better me then some pureblood, Death Eater wannabe scumbag?" He forcibly shoved both his hands in his pockets to avoid doing something he'd regret. "Let me guess, that was your anti STD plan? Screw a Phoenix; get a treat?"

If he'd expected to hurt her he'd been wrong.

"Sure, if that's what you want to think, Potter, feel free." Sara tilted her face up, defiantly. "I'm not stupid enough to think someone like you would ever give someone like me the time of day. Not under normal circumstances. You've made your feelings towards _most_ purebloods perfectly clear."

He was being unfair. Not all purebloods were like that. He knew that. But right then he didn't care. "Forgive me for not wanting to get involved in some outdated social hierarchy."

"Interesting. Tell me, Potter, wasn't your last girlfriend one?"

He stiffened, shoulders going rigid. "How about we leave her out of this?" He didn't want to think about 'Ginny. In fact, she was the last person he wanted to think about.

"Fine by me," she said easily. "You're the one who insisted on drilling me about this, since my actual answer – that I'm sodding attracted to you – wasn't good enough."

He felt a clench in his chest. "Can't blame me for questioning that."

Sara appeared to be calculating something. "Okay," she settled on, "you want honesty? Would me admitting that in the back of my mind there was just the slightest whisper that if I did this with you, with _James,_ not Harry-sodding-Potter, that I might have a _good_ memory to look back on instead of something horrid be good enough for you?" She brushed her hair out of her eyes, both of them crystal clear, hard. "Better a good memory with a stranger, than one where I get jumped by some blood supremacist with contractual marriage rights. _James_ I was actually having fun with. I thought _James_ wouldn't be like other men and treat me like shit afterwards." She paused, her tone practically glacial. "Guess I was wrong about that too, wasn't I?"

Sara tugged her eyes away, taking a step back to spin-

A surge of panic rose in him.

Harry'd grabbed her before he even realized he'd done it. Sara froze, her torso twisted away from him, her thick veil of hair falling to hide her face.

Her knuckles were white, fingers clutching tightly at her wand, and an irrational, afraid part of Harry's mind feared she'd been about to twist to apparate away, storm be damned.

If she did that he'd never see her again.

Not to mention the sheer act could kill her.

Harry's hold on her tightened, more out of fear than necessity. She didn't pull away. She didn't try. She didn't make a single sound.

Fear that she wanted to get away from him coiled beneath the surface.

"I didn't want that." The hair on the back of his neck stood up, his voice low and scratchy.

"Yet here we are," she said icily.

It was like an ice pick straight to the chest. He felt a cold prickling across his skin. He didn't want this.

There'd been a lot there, in what the fuck she'd said, but once he cut through all that other superfluous bullshit only one thing mattered.

"You like me," he said.

Sara tensed beneath his hand, Wally letting out a low growl. He didn't care about the angered shack. He just stared at Sara in a quiet sort of awe. "You actually, seriously like me."

"Am I that transparent?" she asked scathingly.

A strange feeling welled up, emanating from somewhere deep in his chest.

He was still processing what she'd said. He'd asked her for the reason. He'd asked why she'd done this with him. He'd asked her to prove she hadn't used him. But she had used him. She'd used him because she'd rather have it be with someone she didn't loathe as opposed to some blood purist she was forcibly hitched to.

The thought of her being married off against her will, taken by some ex-Death Eater wannabe like Malfoy, had his stomach churn.

"What if we hadn't met like this?" he blurted. "What if we'd met at the Leaky? Anywhere else. Would you have?"

Sara remained twisted away, as if by doing so she could keep him at an emotional distance.

She seemed to think about her response for a long time.

"Honestly?" she said. "No."

He should have felt something at that, but he couldn't. A strange numbness swept through his veins, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that had she said _yes_ he wouldn't have believed her anyway.

But she hadn't said yes. She'd said no.

She wouldn't have slept with Harry-bleeding-Potter.

Her arm quivered beneath his touch, but she didn't shake him off. Sara simply cast an upset glance back at him, over her shoulder, only one of her remarkable eyes visible through that dark veil of hair. The darkness contrasted against the bright, bright blue. It was unnatural.

She wet her lips. "I wasn't lying before. I don't know you, Potter. I have zero interest in you. We never even met. Not properly. You never spoke a word to me all of Hogwarts. But I did meet James, and unless you're denser than advertised I don't think you need me to expound upon my feelings for him."

It was like she was talking about two different people.

"I don't regret it, either." She shot him a nasty look. "Not even after all this."

He exerted a slight pressure against her arm, pulling her back around to face him. Sara came surprisingly easily. He pulled her close, not keen to touch, yet his hand never left its spot on her arm. "And now?" he asked, voice hollow. "Do you have zero interest now?" He didn't know what made him ask it.

"Does it matter?"

A hot coal dropped in his stomach. "Yes."

Sara was still trembling and he wanted to make it stop.

"Look, Sara," he said, pressing close-

Sara gave her arm a small tug, backing away. Harry released his hold and something inside him plummeted.

The silence was awkward, Harry's heart pumping, wishing she'd say something.

"I don't spend much time in Great Britain," she eventually said. "I left right after Hogwarts, I-maybe I shouldn't have. I only go back when I absolutely have to." He watched her internal struggle in silence. "You have only a small idea of the kinds of things I do, James. And I get it. They're imperfect. It might not _fix_ anything, but these things….they're important to me. They're also very illegal. The only thing I have going for me is anonymity. Do you really think I would want to be seen on the arm of the reluctantly famous Harry Potter? For even a second?" At this her eyes rose, and she shook her head slightly, telling him no.

It gutted him.

"But you're alright with James." He was surprised by how hollow he sounded.

"I think a better question is, is James alright with me?"

This was ridiculous.

It was downright irrational.

Harry dragged a hand up and dragged it through his hair,, well aware of the way Sara's eyes were drawn to his bare arm in the process. He fisted his fingers in the unruly black and just looked at her.

"I think," he ground, "James might be." A tiredness was building behind his eyes, in his muscles. "What's your name?"

"It doesn't matter," she responded, near instant. "Believe me, this has gone bad enough. Let's not make it worse."

He felt a deep sense of dread. She didn't want him to know who she really was. He might not recognize her, but he knew nothing good could come from that. His chest rose and fell a bit harder. "What do you look like? Normally. When you're _not_ Sara."

She afforded him a wane smile. "When it's my choice, Potter, I'm _always_ Sara."

"That didn't answer my question."

"I don't know how to. I think I've made it clear there's no reason to pursue something silly like a name I cast off a long time ago. But I look like this. Mostly."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Mostly?"

She shrugged. "Normally I hide my eyes. My hair. I've never been particularly pretty, and I've never minded. Blending into the background has kept me safe. I have no intention of changing that."

Harry had questions. Lots of them.

She'd already confessed that these were her eyes, that this was what she actually looked like, mostly.

But he didn't remember anyone with those eyes from school. Sure, a wizard might not notice until they'd gotten physically close to her – eye color wasn't something you noticed at ten paces - but he was certain that over six years he'd have caught sight of them at least once. Eventually. In class. In herbology or potions labs. Invariably he'd wound up paired with everyone in his year at some point or another, even Malfoy.

Which meant that at some point in his past he'd sat next to this witch, and been close enough to see her eyes.

Why the fuck hadn't she reached out and touched him then? It could have spared him a hell of a lot of heartbreak with Ginny's ass.

Thoughts of Ginny, her spectacular ass, and what she'd done to him were shoved forcibly back into his mental black box where they belonged. With any luck they'd gather dust and rot.

He had an irrational urge to use magic on Sara, to see exactly who she was.

He knew instantly that he wouldn't.

"What kind of eleven year old," he asked instead, "hides those in school?" And just in case she didn't grasp what the hell he meant, he nodded stiffly at her face. "Your eyes are hardly discrete."

Hesitance crept into those same eyes, and for a second he thought she might not answer.

But then she sighed, rifling a hand through her choppy hair. "Do you know what has eyes of different colors most often, James? Inbred animals. Like dogs." She paused. "Purebloods consider this type of mutation a stigma, a sign of ill-breeding. Makes it virtually impossible to secure a reputable marriage contract. So knowing that, do you seriously think my parents would have let me go into Hogwarts unarmed? Without already knowing glamour charms? I was taught to hide my appearance beginning day one."

That pit in his stomach grew. "That's barbaric."

"It's what I knew. Anytime I went out in public I had to have my eye color changed, lest anyone suspect my mother's dirty Canadian half-blood _blood_."

His jaw set, stubbornly. "They shouldn't have cared about that."

"Better that then getting called a dirty, ill-bred bitch or worse."

Air was caught in his chest, and it was hot and broiling. "Anyone who'd call you that can go to hell."

"Says the man who screwed me and discarded me like I was trash."

It stabbed him, right in the chest. "That's not what happened."

"Riiiight…" she drew the word out.

He wanted to punch things again, gesturing at her face. "What about classes when we used finite? How'd you dodge the glamour coming off then."

The edge of her lips curved up in a rather out-of-place smirk. "Colored contacts. My mother really did think of everything."

Harry tried to process that. A pureblood, at Hogwarts, using glamour charms at eleven and wearing Muggle colored contacts. He wound up staring at her, finally asking, "So this…your face. Is that your natural hair color, or is this part of your…your Sara persona?"

"You're fishing, Potter."

"Damn right I am."

Her brow creased, and when she spoke her words were quietly serious, something almost vulnerable in them. "I like to blend. Please don't push me."

He stopped. He studied her, there in the dimly lit room, candlelight casting shadows across her pale skin as the building shuddered every-so-slightly. "You'd hardly blend now."

She shrugged, carelessly. "You'd be surprised at the places I've gone where no one spared me a second glance. Really, a pair of sunglasses and a high necked shirt. It's not particularly hard. You're an Auror. I'd think you'd know that."

She was right. He did know that. Her features, her nose, chin, the shape of her face…they were all shockingly forgettable.

But not to him. Not now. And still…

It wasn't her.

Suddenly he didn't care what she looked like.

When he spoke his voice was sort of awed. "How the hell did I never notice you? At Hogwarts? You knew me, so we must have-"

She fixed him with a look. "Don't be daft. Everyone knew you. You weren't exactly discrete. Between Quidditch, your epic fights with Malfoy, the Triwizard tournament, all those newspaper articles, your constant bitching about Voldemort, and that tryst with Weaslette even if I'd wanted to ignore your existence it would have been impossible."

She said it so irritatedly, so matter-of-factly he nearly laughed.

And then he realized something: she'd referenced Malfoy near the front of that list.

Like a Slytherin would.

Harry's eyes shifted lower, landing at her hip, where her jeans now concealed the extent of her scar. The scar he'd traced with his fingertips, his lips…

He suddenly had a horrid idea of how she might know him, of why Malfoy had been at the forefront of her mind.

"Sara, how'd you get that scar?"

She looked at him without a trace of malice. "Same as how most people got their scars, James. The Battle of Hogwarts."

Suddenly he had to fight to control his breathing, and he looked at her in a whole new way. "You were there," he said flatly.

Confusion flashed in her eyes. "Of course I was there. Anyone with half a spine was."

Dread filled him, and as he opened his mouth to ask, she saw it.

Understanding flashed in her eyes, words spat with raw upset, "If you _dare_ ask what side I was on I will hex you impotent, I swear to Merlin, Potter."

He snapped his mouth closed. He was processing that. That he'd known her most of his life, yet had never really met. That she was familiar, yet entirely new. That she'd fought in the war, but he didn't even know her real name.

In the end he didn't have to ask what side she'd been on. She was here, in Honduras, trying to protect Muggles. Albeit in an entirely twisted way.

His mouth curved into a slow, easy smile. "Like you'd damage something we both enjoy."

Sara outright stared at him.

And then, in the most adorable fashion, she began to sputter. "You-you arrogant-completely off your- you _ignorant_ -"

Harry moved. It took only a single step to reach her, and his hand claimed her hair between his fingers. Sara instantly stopped talking; she stopped trying. With a single finger beneath her chin he tilted her face up. Harry looked down into her eyes, his own dark as ink, his voice deep and low. "We should stop talking," he grated, rough enough to sound as if he'd been through a grinder. "We're not good at it."

Sara had stopped shaking, her pupils slightly dilated, words soft and breathy. "What would you suggest?"

"At risk of getting hexed, I believe I have some things to make up for." He drug his finger along the slope of her chin, dragging it down the side of her neck.

Sara shuddered. "I sincerely hope," she whispered shakily, "you fabricate better cover stories when you're with the Aurors, James. Otherwise you're going to get yourself killed."

Something in her expression was serious, resolute.

Harry couldn't help but grin. "You're worried about me."

"Shut up."

"I'll take it under consideration." His hand fell to her shoulder, resting atop her smooth, bare skin, squeezing.

Sara hadn't touched him. Not yet. She still clung to the coat in front of her chest. "Why'd you lie, James? Why'd you tell me you were someone you weren't?"

Something stirred inside him uncomfortably. "You mean since unlike you, I didn't have to fear imminent arrest by the random Auror I'd run into?" He'd long since guessed at her reasons.

Sara nodded, her face shifting so that her cheek brushed against his hand. She might not be touching him, not yet, but his hands were on her, one having fallen to gently rest against her hip, the other near her neck, face. She didn't touch him, but she didn't reject him either.

It was what made him honest when he replied.

"You didn't appear to recognize me," he said. "I liked that." His eyes, dark as centuries old forests, looked into hers. "Didn't want to risk losing that novelty, someone seeing me for me and not the things I've done."

The blue in her eyes seemed to darken, the brown growing golder. "You wanted to be someone else."

"Yes," he admitted.

Her eyebrows, carefully sculpted and suiting her face, knitted together. "I think I know someone," she shared, "that knows a little bit about being someone else."

"Oh? Do you now?" He feigned surprise, voice deep with lust.

"Mmm," she nodded, but she still didn't touch him. It was slowly driving him mad. "I think I might."

He wanted to take her. He wanted to make up for everything he'd done by being the asshole she thought he was. "Perhaps," he said, "we should use a cushioning charm this time." His gaze shifted to her elbow, telling, "You're bruised." His eyes narrowed. "Also might want to trim your nails."

Sara's breath caught, Harry feeling a smug, possessive satisfaction at his effect on her.

He might not know her, but he didn't have to. Right now, for what they were doing, for what they needed from one another, he knew enough. Though this time, his head far more clear than the last, he realized what they'd forgotten.

Or rather what _he'd_ forgotten.

Had it been anyone else, anyone, he'd have been in a panic. But he wasn't. For reasons inexplicable to him, he trusted her. Funny, how quickly that had changed.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Conversing with her….

It was like talking to no one else.

His hand slid to her hip, his fingers sliding against the smooth skin of her abdomen, thumb dipping beneath her jeans to trace the hidden path of her scar. "You're a healer."

Sara shivered, pressing against him, her jacket slipping as she let go with one hand to clutch onto his arm. She was putty in his hands. "Glad to see you've been paying attention."

He made an affirmative sound, repeating, "You're a healer, and we didn't use any contraceptive spells." He gave her a moment, a rising suspicion within him, one that was unpleasant. But he had to wait, to see what she confirmed, what she was willing to say.

At his words she had stiffened. Harry drug his free hand, the one not tracing her scar, around to the back of her neck, caressing up along her spine. She shuddered, it having its intended effect to relax her.

"I'm not trying to trap you with a kid, Potter," she promised, eyes nearly closed, "if that's what you're worried about."

"I wasn't."

He gave her all the time she needed. It was possible she took potions, regularly, but even those weren't always effective. Spells were used with them to be sure. He would know. He'd used them often enough with Ginny.

So he wasn't surprised when Sara opened her eyes, meeting his without apology. "I can't have kids. That spell I took…" She smiled bitterly. "It damaged me."

He pulled her that much closer, his brow creasing deep. "Thought as much." Another person injured, whose life had been changed by the war. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"I suppose you can understand now why I'm not keen to remain in England."

Their faces, lips, had grown close. Shirtless with jeans, they hovered in each other's space, but Harry stopped to study her. "Actually no." He didn't understand what one had to do with the other. He drug his hand up to the base of her skull, twining her hair between his fingers in as comforting a gesture as he could give.

It was the least he could give her after…everything.

Her lips had parted, as if she'd been unprepared to talk about it.

"Have it on good authority," he told her, "I'm a good listener when I'm not busy impersonating a horse's lesser cousin."

A small laugh escaped her, and she bowed her head until her forehead pressed against his chin, the witch nodding slightly.

It was almost sweet.

He wanted to clutch her to him and not let go, but he waited, because speaking…it took her a minute.

"I'm a pureblood, James," she said, slipping seamlessly back into calling him by his requested name. "Witches are expected to marry into a family to produce an heir. Now imagine what kind of wizard would contract for me when I can't." She paused, her words devoid of emotion, as if she'd rehearsed saying it aloud to herself many times before. "My best case scenario is someone who is tolerant of it and just takes a mistress, adopting whatever child they have with them as ours. And the worst…"

She trailed off, not finishing.

Not once had Harry stopped his ministrations near the back of her head, but an angry surge flared in him, one of the everlasting candles snapping in half. It cracked. Loud and audible.

Sara jumped, but Harry tugged her brow to his, looking at her intently.

"Fuck them," he said, damn serious. "They can't force you to do anything." He offered her a quirk of the mouth, telling, "Besides, regardless of who the hell you were, I happen to like Sara. Nothing wrong with staying as her."

She looked at him in a way she hadn't looked at him before, not this entire night. A scorching heat in her eyes engulfed him like a wall of fire, emotion and upset within them, and it was about all he could take.

Harry kissed her.

He made love to her.

Wally growled unhappily the entire time.

Later, beneath that exposed showerhead, the two running their hands along one another's bare bodies as the water pounded down upon them, the mud and sweat and blood dripping away, Harry drug her back against his chest, his mouth lowered to whisper near her ear, "Your pet shack wants to eat me."

She tilted her head back against his chest, smiling. "Only a _little_."

"Minx."

"Ass."

Water dripped down Sara's sleek body, Harry's unruly hair hanging in his eyes, and for once he felt content.

The hurricane lasted another two days before Wally unlatched his door with a disgruntled _clack_. Harry'd been dreading this. He knew she had to go, just like he did. There'd be injured parties that needed help. And as he and Sara stepped out, squinting in the daylight, he felt his heart dropping, plummeting.

He grabbed onto her hand, pulling her back around, ignorant of the disaster zone around them. "I want to see you again."

In the sunlight Sara's hair lit up, dark and deep. "I'm not sure that'd be good for your career, Auror Potter."

It was the first time she'd called him by his real name in two days.

His heart thudded. "I don't care."

Sara seemed to be thinking, Harry now understanding what it was to be on a metaphorical ledge.

Standing on her tiptoes, that a feat given the mud they both sank in, she pressed a swift, sweet kiss to his lips. Harry groaned almost hungrily against her, feeling the instant and untellable loss as she stepped away. Sara tried to shrug out of his jacket to hand it back-

"No." He frowned. "Keep it."

He'd given her it two days ago. Sara's shirt had been shredded, her rather appealing jacket torn in too many places to count. He hadn't been about to send her out into the world in frayed clothing. A possessive part of him thought that seeing her like that…it should be for him and only him.

She looked at him for a long moment, a small smile touching her lips. "Alright."

An infinitesimal trace of a French accent was apparent. Hell…

He even loved the way she said _alright._

Sara wet her lips, studying him, and Harry waited with baited breath.

It took her a minute.

It took her a long minute.

Then Sara reached up and tugged a couple stands of hair off her head, wincing slightly, her nose crinkling in that adorable manner.

Faster then he'd expected she pressed them into his palm, eyes flickering over his, words meaningful. "If you want to find me, James, you'll figure it out."

Then without another word, before he could get in one himself, she spun, disapparating on the spot.

Harry was left staring at the empty spot she'd just been, only the crumpled remains of a car left behind. He was an Auror. He was no stranger to tracking charms. That she'd given him a way to do so though….

Reaching down he transfigured a small container out of a small piece of scrap metal, sealing the hair inside it. He ignored how creepy, serial-killer-esque this was.

Wally let out a lonesome whine, the wizard glancing back at the door, the thing still hanging wide open. His eyes narrowed in deep thought.

Wally'd saved them.

He'd also all but given him Sara.

"Pretty sure I know where a few goat heads are laying around," he said, recalling the ones Ron had stepped over. "Want some later?"

The door banged closed and opened repeatedly, all its shutters moving, like an excited dog wagging its tail.

Well at least that answered the question about whether or not it was carnivorous.

"Be back later then…" he said, awkward.

He clenched his hand around the container, Sara's hair his only connection now. For two days any attempts he'd made to get more information, to find out who she actually was, had been deflected.

He respected it. He did.

But he was still going to try.

He shoved her hair into his pocket, and with a bone deep sigh he apparated as well.

The Honduran Ministry cracked into existence, the entire lobby teeming with life. After so many days of silence it was like being hit with a bullhorn.

Twenty minutes later and a lot of shoving, and Hermione saw him first. "HARRY!" She shoved through a throng of people, permanently traumatizing several potted plants, and practically launched herself at him. Harry let out an oomph as she threw her arms around his neck, squeezing and snapping admonishments about scaring her half to death while smacking him intermittingly.

Ron, however, took one look at him and narrowed his eyes. As Harry did his best to pry Hermione off him, his male best mate continued to scrutinize him. "Good to see you're alive, mate." His eyes narrowed further. "Something's different."

Finally succeeding in prying Hermione off, holding her by both arms and shoving her out to arms length just to be careful, he shot Ron a rough grimace.

Hermione too eyed him oddly. "Harry, you look awfully clean." She paused, reaching out and smoothing down his shirt. "You even smell good. Have you showered?" Her eyes widened and an upset look crossed her face. "You took the time to shower when you knew we'd be worried?" She looked around, "And the witch that was with you, Harry, is she alright?"

Ron, unfortunately, was staring at him.

And then he full on grinned. "Don't think you have to worry about that luv."

Hermione's head whipped back towards her boyfriend. "Then what-"

Ron ignored her, blue gaze fixed on Harry like lasers. "So," he asked, like the eager best-mate he was, "how was she?"

The back of Harry's neck turned oddly red, the Seeker dragging a hand back to rub at it. "Not sure what you mean."

Now Ron just smirked, chortling. "Riiiight. Sure you don't." He shot him a wink.

Hermione's mouth had been slowly falling open, her brown eyes turning to stare him down. "Harry, please tell me you didn't?"

"Did what, 'Mione?" he replied innocently.

The crowd continued to churn around them, representatives from every Ministry with international portkey capabilities arriving to help.

"Well?" Ron said expectantly, clearly not ready to drop it.

A strangely warm sensation welled up in his stomach, Harry reaching down to feel the small container in his pocket.

She'd given him a way to find her.

Part of her, however small, wanted to see him again.

He grinned like an idiot, raking his hand through his hair. "She's incredible."

Hermione's mouth hung wide, but Ron let out a loud, barking laugh. "Alright, Harry! So what's her name?"

Harry shook his head. "No idea."

Ron frowned. "Wait, so when are you going to see her again?"

Again he shook his head. "No idea."

"Well tell me you at least tried more than one position. We were gone for two days and remember that magazine I show-"

"RONALD!"

Ron looked confused. "But 'Mione you're the one who gave me that book to rea-"

"Harry doesn't need to know about that!" she said it all in one breath, keeping quiet, but her voice had grown unnaturally shrill.

Both Harry and Ron winced, Hermione's brilliant brain pushing past her initial shock, and as his two best friends began to bicker Harry chuckled. He thudded his shoulders against a palm tree, the thing growing out of the Ministry atrium's floor, and watched his friends with a relaxed air.

He never saw Sara across the lobby, her eyes flitting towards him. He never saw her because her hair was no longer that deep brown hue that he'd run his fingers through, her eyes no longer that incredible shade that he'd reverently watched.

But she watched him.

She'd caught sight of him through the crowd moments ago, a little surprised he had shown there. He'd always had a habit of showing up where there was trouble, not where it was safe. So she stayed back, hidden amidst the throng of bodies, because his jacket still clung to her shoulders. Somehow it warmed her, Harry's scent clinging to it, the phantom feel of his hands on her enough to make her tremble.

The rather plain witch tucked a light blonde strand of hair behind her ear, a tiny smile teasing her lips. Harry's friends were arguing. Harry had thudded his back against one of those impossibly tall palms to watch. His dark hair was impossible, sticking sexily up in every conceivable direction, his long-sleeved shirt rumpled and wrinkled. His broad shoulders seemed relaxed, a dazed grin on his face as he dragged his hand through his hair, messing it up even worse.

He looked strangely happy.

She lowered her gaze with an almost shy smile, her eyes a pale, icy blue.

"Healers for section R! Portkeying out in sixty seconds!"

With one last look over her shoulder, something pleasant fluttering within her belly, Daphne Greengrass reluctantly moved, joining the rest of the trainee healers being sent out to help the wounded.

* * *

_**EYHORH** _

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**Author's Note:** In terms of update speed, updates will be semi-frequent (every couple of weeks). This is my secondary story though (I'll be updating Eclipse more frequently), but there are definitely more chapters to come. 


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